


Olicity Flash Fiction

by ihatepeas



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 26,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihatepeas/pseuds/ihatepeas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My collection for the Olicity Flash Fiction prompts given by SmoakandArrow on Tumblr. Each one will be written, edited, and posted in one hour. With an exception for the first one. :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FF #1: Into the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as I saw this prompt, I thought of Aragorn in Fellowship of the Ring, when one of the hobbits asks him where they're going, and he says, "Into the wild," and then swaggers dramatically out of the frame. :P I couldn't get it out of my head, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to use this prompt at all because of that. So I just went with it. I feel like it might be a little OOC for Roy, but we've hardly seen him interact with Felicity at all, so it's mostly guesswork anyway. It worked for my purposes.

**FF #1: Into the Wild**

Oliver was a shameless eavesdropper. There was just something about hearing what other people thought of him when they didn’t know he was listening. It was hard to sneak up on anyone in the Foundry, though. The metal stairs were impossible to traverse quietly. He had to settle for the rare occasions when Diggle and Felicity would show up not knowing he was already there. It hardly ever happened.

He was way in the back, behind a stack of pummeled training dummies and broken equipment, looking for a stray arrow that had gone far wide of its target because his phone had buzzed in his pocket right as he’d taken the shot. Familiar footsteps clattered down the stairs. Felicity. Her stride was measured and careful when she wore heels. Felicity and . . .

“Look, I might be the sidekick, but I’m not the hobbit sidekick,” Roy’s voice carried from the other end of the room.

“What’s wrong with Sam?” Felicity asked. An innocuous question, but the steel in her voice implied that she would skewer Roy if she wasn’t happy with his answer.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just . . . that’s who you think I am? Really?”

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Oliver could hear the  _pock-pock-pock_ of Felicity’s heels as she crossed the room.

“Well, now that I think about, Sam doesn’t really fit,” she said. “Which character has the most anger issues? Frodo? No . . . Gollum!”

“Blondie, do not even speak such blasphemy.”

“Boromir?”

“He had daddy issues, not anger issues. He also died with about eight arrows sticking out of him,” Roy pointed out.

“Three, actually,” Felicity corrected him. “Which is only two more than you experienced, so it’s a situation that’s not totally unfamiliar.” Oliver could hear the smile in her voice. “What about Diggle?”

“Big guy who doesn’t say much . . . that huge orc that kills Boromir?” Roy suggested.

“Oh, no way. Literally all he says is ‘Find the halflings!’” She said the line in a bellowing, gravelly voice that triggered a coughing fit. When she’d recovered, she continued. “Dig talks more than that, he’s way better-looking, and he’s not a bad guy.”

“We can’t all be good guys.”

“Why not? There are enough good guys in  _Lord of the Rings_ for all of us,” said Felicity.

“Maybe . . . Elrond?” Roy said. “Except less judgmental.”

“Oh! I know who you are!” Felicity cried. “You’re that kid, Haleth.”

“Who?”

“Haleth. You know, that kid swinging a sword before the battle at Helm’s Deep.”

Roy huffed. “I’m a kid?”

“Well . . . yes.”

Oliver was grinning now. It was all he could do to keep quiet and not alert them to his presence.

“If I’m the kid,” Roy went on, “then you’re saying Oliver is Aragorn.”

“Totally,” Felicity replied. “The first time we see Aragorn, he’s wearing a hood pulled down over his face and acting all shady.”

Oliver’s eyebrows went up.

“And he’s kind of a jerk at first,” said Roy, “yelling at the hobbits and stuff.”

“Hmmm . . . then maybe Diggle’s more of a Gandalf to Oliver’s Aragorn,” Felicity mused. “Dispensing wisdom and telling Aragorn to buck up and embrace his destiny.”

“And you?” Roy asked. “There are only a couple of choices.”

“Do  _not_ get me started on the number of female major characters in  _Lord of the Rings_ . It was written in a different time—we must not judge.” She said it like it was a mantra she’d repeated to herself more than once.

“I know who  _I_ think you are, but who do  _you_ think you are?”

“Eowyn,” said Felicity. “Which makes Laurel Arwen. And if you tell anyone, I will trash your credit score and ruin your rental history.”

“I disagree,” Roy said. “Not about that last part, because I absolutely believe you could destroy my life with that tablet of yours.”

“Then who? Rosie? Or do you think I’m more like one of the dudes? I might be a little Pippin-ish. He does talk a lot and have a knack for getting himself in trouble.”

“You have it backwards,” Roy said. “I don’t know if Laurel’s Eowyn or Rosie or . . . maybe she’s not anybody, but that’s not the point.”

“What  _is_ the point?” Felicity asked.

“You think you’re Eowyn, which is cool. She’s all right. She’s a total badass with that creepy guy who rides the worm thing—”

“The Witch King of Angmar,” Felicity supplied.

“Shut up. Your nerdiness is distracting me from my big speech.”

Oliver smiled as he thought of all the ways Felicity could make Roy pay for telling her to shut up.

“What are you trying to say?” she asked.

“Eowyn spends most of that movie pining for Aragorn.”

“I do not pine for Oliver!” Felicity said loudly.

“I know! Stop interrupting me!”

Oliver could hear Felicity stomp a few feet and then dramatically drop into her chair.

“Fine,” she said. “Just so we’re clear on how much I’m not pining.”

“You are a little,” said Roy. “You didn’t used to, as far as I could tell, so something must have changed, but I don’t know what.”

Oliver knew what had changed. Three words. Those three honest words couched in a lie.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Felicity said, sounding not at all convincing.

“Felicity, you’re smart and badass like Eowyn, but when it comes to Oliver, you’re Arwen all the way. You just don’t see it yet.”

She laughed, a sound that usually brought a smile to Oliver’s face, but this time it stabbed at his heart a little.

“The fact that you think I’m kidding proves my point,” Roy said.

“Roy, Roy, Roy. Don’t be ridiculous. Arwen and Aragorn are like Lancelot and Guinevere, or Romeo and Juliet. Epic, destiny, happily ever after . . . Wait, maybe those aren’t the best examples. But you know what I mean.”

Oliver could picture her gesturing wildly. The more worked up she got about something, the more animated she would become. “We’re not . . . I’m not . . .” She sighed. “Oliver definitely doesn’t see me that way, and I—”

Oliver dropped the arrow. He was never sure afterward if it was an accident or if he was trying to get caught on purpose.

“What was that?” said Roy. “A rat?”

Felicity drew in a sharp breath. “I’m all for defying gender stereotypes, but if there’s a rat in here, I’m going to climb up on my desk and stay there until you get rid of it.”

Suddenly Oliver really didn’t want Felicity to catch him and realize he’d heard everything. She’d be embarrassed and feel awkward, and he wouldn’t be able to mask his own feelings. Already his control was slipping, and to his dismay, he heard footsteps approaching. But they weren’t heels.

Roy stepped around the broken training dummies, clutching the half-staff Sara used to practice with. His eyes widened as he saw Oliver, and he opened his mouth to speak. But Oliver shook his head and held a finger up to his own lips. He shook his head again, in case the kid hadn’t gotten the message. Roy turned to go, and as he brushed past, Oliver muttered so quietly, it was less than a whisper: “You’re right, by the way. She’s my Arwen.”


	2. FF #2: Game On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity exhibits a new skill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is seriously hard right now to get one full, uninterrupted hour. So in the spirit of adhering more to the rules, I sacrificed editing time for writing time, so this isn't as clean as I would prefer it to be. Repetition, -ly adverbs, etc. But oh well. I will survive, and so will you. :P

**FF #2: Game On**

 

Shouts coming from within the lair caused Oliver to tense, readying himself for a fight. When he realized that one of those voices was definitely female, he burst into the room, knife drawn and fists up. What awaited him as he rounded the corner was not the scene of chaos or danger that he’d expected.

The med table had been cleared off and moved to the center of the room. Two clusters of Dixie cups, set up like bowling pins, were arranged at each end. Felicity and Roy were standing at opposite ends of the table. There were damp spots on the front of Roy’s ever-present red hoodie, and Felicity had kicked off her shoes. Roy was holding up a Ping Pong ball and squinting. As he raised his arm, Oliver stepped into the room.

“Are you two playing beer pong?”

Roy’s throw was off. The ball hit the middle of the table at a weird angle and went spinning off to bounce on the floor a few times before rolling under Felicity’s workstation.

“Dammit, Queen, I’m already losing,” Roy grumbled. “I don’t need your help.”

Felicity reached down the front of her dress and withdrew a Ping Pong ball. She tossed it in the air and caught it like she was preparing for a tennis serve. Then she threw it. With a  _thock_ and a splash, the ball landed in one of only three cups left on Roy’s side. He sighed dramatically, fished out the ball, dropped it in a cup off to the side, and downed the contents of the original cup.

Oliver approached the table and sniffed the air. “Please tell me you’re not using my Russian vodka to play beer pong,” he said.

“Hiiiii, Oliver!” said Felicity. There were twice as many cups remaining on her side, but she was swaying on her feet. “There wasn’t any beer. Your super-secret new hideout isn’t located beneath a club with a fully stocked bar.”

Oliver turned and gave Roy the full power of his glare. The younger man held up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, it was her idea, I swear,” he said.

“Right. Felicity?”

“Yes, Mr. Queen?” She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, but it was too much for her already unstable balance. She tripped over her shoes and tilted backward, but Oliver caught her before  she could fall.

“Was this really your idea?” he asked.

She nodded solemnly. “I didn’t have anything better to do, and Sir Broods-a-lot McPoutypants over there needed some cheering up. You know, if there was a World Series of brooding, youuuuu,” she drawled, poking his shoulder, “might actually have some competition.”

Oliver frowned. “How much have you had to drink? I thought you were winning.”

“How long are you guys going to stand like that?” Roy asked. “I mean, it’s cute, sure. You look like that World War Two picture of the sailor dipping that girl back and kissing her. But we have a game to finish.”

Oliver looked down. His hands were still on Felicity’s waist, and at some point she’d twined her arms around his neck. She was indeed angled back in a pose more reminiscent of a dance floor (and that iconic photo) than anything else. He set her upright and let go of her. She teetered to the left, then caught herself by grabbing the edge of the table.

“Well, I’ve only missed twice,” she said, following it up with a triumphant grin. “But Roy bumped into the table and knocked over a cup and we decided not to refill it. And then I drank a couple to boost his morale because he was losing so badly. It was pity imbibing.”

“Thanks, Blondie,” Roy said sarcastically. “I’m actually kind of enjoying myself, though. Apparently alcohol is like truth serum for her,” he said to Oliver.

“It’s a Smoak family trait,” Felicity said gravely. “But you said you wouldn’t say anything about what I said.” She frowned. “That’s a lot of ‘saids’. Anyway, you promised that—” She lowered her voice to imitate Roy. “—whatever is said in the lair stays in the lair.”

“We’re still  _in_ the lair,” Roy pointed out.

“Have I had this conversation before?” she asked. “My head hurts.”

“She’s drunk, and she’s  _still_ beating you?” Oliver asked Roy.

“She didn’t say anything about being a beer pong savant before we started playing,” the younger man said.

“It’s just geometry,” said Felicity, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m also really good at pool. And mini-golf.”

“But not very good at holding your booze,” Roy replied.

“Now that’s just rude. You say that like it’s an insult, like it’s a skill to be honed, not a matter of biology and weight ratios.”

The table was the only thing holding her up, so when Felicity whirled away from it, she crashed face-first into Oliver’s chest. “Ow.” She straightened her glasses. “Did I not cheer you up?” she said to Roy. “Are you not entertained?”

He rolled his eyes.

Oliver gripped Felicity’s arms to steady her on her feet. “Why don’t you declare victory, and I’ll take you home?” he suggested.

“I win? Yay!”

Oliver had to support most of Felicity’s weight on the walk to her car. He’d seen how full those cups were—he was shocked that she was still mostly upright because she was such a lightweight. Once he’d gotten her into the passenger seat and buckled her in, she reached out and grasped the hem of his sweater as he straightened up.

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ask me anything on the way home, okay? Roy wasn’t kidding about the truth serum thing. I just feel really, really honest right now, and I don’t think you can handle it.”

“Relax, Felicity,” he said as she let go. “You wouldn’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.”


	3. FF #3: Too Far, Too Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried really hard to stay within the hour limit, so this just kind of ends abruptly. :P

**FF#3: Too Far, Too Fast**

 

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to do,” Oliver said.

“Oh, I totally understand,” Felicity replied. “You want to do something special for my birthday, but you’ve never done a birthday on a budget, and you’re struggling because in your world, special means expensive.”

He stared at her. “Well, that’s . . . accurate. In an unsettling kind of way.”

“Unsettling?” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Do I scare you?”

“Absolutely.”

“You already know that I will destroy you if you dare to throw me a surprise party,” Felicity said.

“You did mention that. Repeatedly.”

“I’ve seen the kind of parties you throw. Expensive ones. And either nobody shows up, or everyone comes who really shouldn’t all be in the same room together.” She slowly spun in her chair. “To me, special is just something I don’t do every day. So basically that means anything besides falling asleep in front of my TV and eating take-out while watching you do pull-ups. Not that I do that.”

Oliver arched an eyebrow, smiling.

“Okay, I do that sometimes. But I have to look at something while I eat, and you’re always right there.” Her cheeks were getting pinker by the minute. “My point is that it doesn’t have to be a big production. In fact, I’d rather it wasn’t. Can’t you follow Dig’s example? He didn’t make a fuss.”

“He gave you cupcakes,” Oliver said. “And a book. Wrapped in newspaper. Two days early.”

“It was an amazing book. It’s out of print. And those cupcakes? They were little bites of heaven.” Her chair came to a stop, and she leaned back and crossed her legs. “Even if they weren’t, that still would have made me feel special without embarrassing me.”

“What about that vineyard you mentioned the other day? They do wine tastings.” He tried for a casual tone, one that wouldn’t betray how much time he’d spent thinking about Felicity’s birthday, how many lists he’d made and then crumpled up, how often he’d covertly consulted Diggle.

“That place is closer to Coast City than it is to here,” Felicity pointed out. “I don’t want to be too far out of town when Diggle Junior could arrive at any time.”

“Fine, then let me take you to dinner at Table Salt.”

“And we’re back where we started,” Felicity said with a sigh.

“It’s not that extravagant,” Oliver said.

“Have you seen their reviews on Yelp? Table Salt is Starling City’s trendiest proposal spot. That’s moving a little too fast, don’t you think?”

Of course it was too fast. It was a date disguised as a birthday present. It was a chance, the first chance he’d had in weeks, to convince her that the idea of them together wasn’t unthinkable at all.

“Oliver? I was kidding.”

He blinked, looking over at her. She was fiddling with her earring, but her eyes found his and held them.

“It was a joke,” Felicity continued. “A bad one, I admit. Let’s just forget I said it.”

“If you think everyone will be staring at us, waiting for me to pull out a ring, then we can go somewhere else,” Oliver said. “But we’re going to do  _something_ , you and me. I’m not letting your birthday pass by uncelebrated just because we couldn’t agree on what to do.”

Two days later, Oliver called to cancel the reservations he’d made at a Greek restaurant that had ocean-side seating. Some other diner would get the chocolate cake he’d specially requested, and his gift, a thin silver chain with an arrow pendant, stayed in his pocket. Instead, he’d bought Felicity a chocolate doughnut from the hospital cafeteria. She pretended to blow out a non-existent candle and then ate the doughnut in about three bites because she hadn’t eaten in hours.

Diggle Junior finally graced the world with her ( _her_ —it was a surprise to everyone) presence just minutes shy of midnight. Felicity said that the baby being born on her birthday was the only present she needed, but Oliver didn’t believe that for a minute. When he dropped her off at home afterward, it was quick work to slip the box with the necklace onto the table just inside the door when her back was turned. Once he’d left it, he didn’t linger, just called out his goodbyes and hopped down the steps two at a time, humming.

Later, stretched out on the bargain-find couch in his new (and tiny) apartment, Oliver listened to the message she’d left while he was on the road. Her voice was teary.

“How dare you, Oliver,” said Felicity. “That was sneaky and sweet and you really should have stuck around long enough for me to thank you. You suck and I love you . . . I mean . . . Oh, you know what I mean. Platonic. That’s a weird word. What does Plato have to do with it? Anyway, how dare you . . . and thank you.”

Oliver dubbed it the How Dare You message and listened to it five more times that night, making sure to save it. Platonically.


	4. FF #4: Alone With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity overhears an interesting conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure what happened here. I planned on funny and fluffy for Abbie because she's sick. But that's not at all what this is. Sorry, Abbie. Hope you don't mind some angst.

**FF #4: Alone With You**

 

They thought she was still asleep. It was the only explanation for them having this kind of conversation in front of her. Or at all.

The flight from Lian Yu to Hong Kong had been bumpy, to say the least. Felicity’d had to pry her fingers from the armrest when they landed. By the time they’d gotten on the ARGUS plane, she was exhausted. But not so exhausted that she didn’t wake up when Dig and Oliver’s murmured conversation escalated into an argument.

“It was  _not_ part of the plan,” Dig said.

“Which part? Which plan?”

“Not funny, man,” Dig replied, thought Felicity hadn’t heard even a hint of amusement in Oliver’s voice.

“There’s nothing funny about it when you go off and make plans of your own. Plans that totally go against what we’ve had in place for Felicity from the start.”

She was all ears now that she knew they were talking about her.

“Dig, you know that isn’t going to work anymore,” said Oliver. “She wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Damn right she wouldn’t, but that’s not the point. This is about your little one-eighty.”

“My what?”

“Your complete turnaround,” Dig said. “From saying you’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, to putting her under the sword of a madman.” Oliver tried to speak, but DIggle cut him off. “And you did it without telling me, which I am plenty pissed about, believe me. But what’s worse is that you did it without telling  _her_ . That girl has abandonment issues. She basically has no family, and she is love-starved. Do you have any idea the kind of damage you inflicted with your fake declaration?” He paused. “I’m afraid to leave her alone with you now. God knows what other stupid, reckless shenanigans you might get up to.”

Felicity couldn’t keep from smiling when Diggle said “shenanigans.” She hoped neither of them was looking at her.

“It wasn’t—”

“Oh,  _now_ you’ve got something to say.”

“Never mind,” Oliver said. “I’m sorry. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

“I want her to hear it from you,” Dig said.

“She will,” Oliver promised. “Someday.”

Felicity’s leg, tucked under her, had fallen asleep during her nap and was just turning to pins and needles all over. She bit her lip to keep from squirming.

“Someday. Right.” Dig sniffed. “She’s not a damsel in distress, Oliver. She’s strong, and there are things that matter more to her than you do. One of these days you’ll push her to her limit, and she’ll walk away. Will you be able to handle that when it happens? Because that’s where this is going, and I tell you, man, if she walks, I walk.”

Felicity held her breath.

“Are you serious?” asked Oliver, his voice rough as if they were the first words he’d spoken in days. Maybe saying  _I love you_ without meaning it had burned his throat somehow.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Diggle replied. “You need her more than you need me, so if she takes off, I’m sure as hell not sticking around to see what it’ll do to you.”

Oliver was silent for a long time. Her leg was killing her, and she wasn’t sure what to do with everything she’d just heard. He was silent for so long that Felicity was beginning to feel drowsy again.

“Then I’ll have to make sure she doesn’t walk away until I’m ready to live without her,” he said quietly.

“Are you ever going to be ready?” Dig asked.

Another long pause. Felicity started to drift off, but she just barely caught his answer before she fell asleep.

“I don’t know.”


	5. #5--Red-Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly written in an hour. Then it took me about four more days to figure out how to end it.

**FF #5: Red-Handed**

Felicity never wore green. Enough people knew she worked with the Arrow already—she wasn’t about to advertise it. She missed it, though. She looked awesome in bright colors, and there was a cute kelly green sweater in the back of her closet that she just hadn’t been able to let go of yet.

The longer she went without wearing the color, the more Felicity missed it. Her eye was constantly drawn to all things green, but it lingered on the brighter shades as well as the deep green of Oliver’s Arrow suit. Over the two years she’d worked with him, her resistance had crumbled bit by bit until, she noticed as she sat in her living room wearing the cute sweater and a pair of fuzzy green socks, she was surrounded by green.

But what did it matter? She never had visitors. She often had tea with her neighbor, Mrs. Shoemaker, but she always went to the other woman’s house. Diggle had been a regular fixture after the earthquake and Oliver’s disappearance, but those visits had mostly ended when he’d reconciled with Lyla. Oliver hadn’t been there since the night they shared the bottle of wine he’d once promised her. She was safe from prying eyes.

As Felicity looked around, though, she realized she might have gotten carried away. All the throw pillows were green, and so was the blanket draped over the back of the couch. A green glass filled with Diet Coke sat on the coffee table. The spare tablet she always kept at home had a green case. Currently she was staring at the green dress she’d bought the day before, trying to talk herself into returning it.

Felicity had laid the dress out on one end of the couch, as if seeing it in all its glory would somehow make the decision easier. It shouldn’t have been so difficult, logically speaking. Her impulse buy was fancy and period, an empire-waisted, cap-sleeved affair that was more fitting for a Jane Austen ball than a Queen Consolidated function, neither of which she was going to be attending any time soon.

A foghorn blast jerked her out of her thoughts and about a mile out of her skin. It had been fun to rig the doorbell to sound different than a regular doorbell, but since it could barely be heard outside, it was funny only to herself, and her amusement began to pall after the bell had once startled her out of a dead sleep.

Felicity got up and checked the peephole. Oh, crap. It was Oliver. She glanced over her shoulder at the explosion of green. She would never hear the end of it. Oliver’s mouth would do that adorable thing where just the corners quirked upward. Dig would smirk, and Roy would have an arsenal of sarcastic, embarrassing comments.

“Felicity?” he called.

“Just a minute!” she cried.

In one frantic leap, she crossed the room, skidding a little on the hardwood floor. She spread her arms wide and gathered up pillows, blanket, and dress in one big green pile, which she hurled into the dining room. She slammed the door shut and raced back to the entryway, where she slipped in her sock feet and crashed into the front door.

“Felicity?”

He sounded worried this time, so she flung open the door before he could do something crazy like breaking it down.

“Uh, hi!” she said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to look casual.

“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes full of concern. “I heard . . . something.”

“Yeah, it was me. Hardwood floor, socks,” she said, pointing down. At her  _green_ socks. Damn.

Oliver didn’t seem to notice. “Are you ready?” he asked. “Should you grab a coat? And some shoes, maybe?” He frowned. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“Possibly,” Felicity replied. “Give me a second to remember.”

“Dinner. You, me, Dig, Lyla, Roy. Does any of this sound familiar? Did you hit your head when you crashed into the door?”

“No.” She punched his arm. “I remember now. I was just distracted. I’ll go get my shoes and coat. And my phone . . . and my keys.”

Oliver smiled. “I can wait.”

Felicity’s gaze drifted to the dining room. The door hadn’t latched—it stood open about four inches, far enough to see a vibrant splash of green. She quickly averted her eyes.

“I’ll just . . . You wait right here,” she said.

Felicity walked up the stairs sedately, but as soon as she was out of sight, she ran to her bedroom. The fuzzy green socks were strictly for the house, so she stripped them off and shoved her bare feet into a pair of purple sneakers with—ack!—bright green laces. Her coat was in the closet downstairs, and her phone was . . . . She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. Her phone must have ended up in the pile of green stuff she’d swept off the couch.

Downstairs, she retrieved her coat from the hall closet and looked around for Oliver.  _Crap_ . The dining room door was open wide, and he was down in a crouch, rooting through all the green stuff she’d thrown in there.

“All right, you caught me red-handed,” she said. “Or green-handed, I guess.”

“Is that what you were doing when I called your name?” he asked, rising from his crouch with her phone in his hand. “Hiding everything green?”

“Um, yes?” She shoved her arms into her coat and began buttoning it up. “I know it’s weird, but I can’t wear green out of the house, and I miss it, so I just kind of . . . I went a little overboard.”

“Felicity, nobody said you couldn’t wear green. I don’t have a monopoly on the color.” He handed over her phone. “It was ringing.”

She glanced at the display, shook her head, and dropped the phone into her pocket. Oliver took a step toward her and reached to turn down her coat collar. He lingered in her personal space just long enough for a blush to rise to her cheeks.

“Ready to leave the Emerald City?” he asked.

Felicity rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Oliver smiled. “Nope. Not for a long time. Green looks good on you.”


	6. FF #6: In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity features prominently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this in church this morning. I think God was probably rolling his eyes. :P

**FF #6: In the Dark**

 

Oliver has a hard time being alone with Felicity now. The moment Diggle moves out of earshot, the weight of everything said and unsaid settles between them, a thick curtain that separates, and muffles every interaction. If the last confrontation with Slade taught him anything, it’s that Oliver made the right decision to keep his relationship with Felicity a friendship and a partnership, nothing more. He might think it couldn’t get worse than seeing her with a sword at her throat, but every time in his life he’d thought things were at rock bottom, he would be unpleasantly, horribly surprised.

The problem was, their exchange that night in his former home had unlocked something inside him. The words were out, and even though Felicity didn’t believe them, Oliver knew he had spoken the truth. It had been an indescribable relief to give voice to one of the deepest secrets of his heart. Most of the secrets he still kept from her and Diggle were dark, shameful things he was not ready to admit. But loving Felicity—finally saying it—was easy, and it was beautiful.

It was also dangerous. Oliver’s declaration had complicated matters rather than resolving them. He couldn’t look at Felicity without picturing her face that night—the brief flicker of hope in her eyes. Hope reflected in his own heart, hope that whispered,  _Someday_ . It’s unfamiliar territory, hope, and he likes it. Probably a little too much. So he decides he has to stop touching her.

Oliver has always been somewhat deliberate when he’s touched Felicity. Safe places—her shoulder, her elbow—and nothing that lingers too long. Of course there have been exceptions, touches she initiates—bear hugs, grasping his hand. They’re usually during or after life-or-death situations, and he tries not to wonder why it takes such an extreme for her to touch him.

But he’s stopped now, and this is also complicating things. He knows Felicity has noticed, but he’s keeping her in the dark. God knows what she must be thinking. Oliver’s new rule has effectively cut off a means of communication between them. How can he articulate everything those touches said?  _I’m here. We’re alive. You’re safe. I meant it_ . He’s tried telling her with his eyes, but obviously that’s not working, or she would have believed him that night at his house.

It isn’t safe to touch her anymore. Something fundamental has changed for him, and now every glance at Felicity, every thought of her, is charged with possibility. A touch, however innocent, could set them both ablaze.

But now  _not_ touching her seems almost as dangerous. Oliver hadn’t realized how much those moments of contact grounded him. They pulled him out of his thoughts, out of his own despair, and reminded him that this ( _this_ , he would think so loudly as to almost speak, staring down at Felicity’s small hand in his) was worth fighting for. Now he waits until he thinks he can’t stand it a moment longer, and then he reaches for her. Now he hugs her. And every time he does, he knows he’s crossing a line, and that if he crosses it enough times, he will smudge it out of existence.


	7. FF #7: Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity sees things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have made this longer, but it took just about an hour, and I'm trying harder now not to blithely break the rules. :P

**FF #7: Illusions**

In hindsight, she should have known something was wrong. Really wrong. But she’d been in full rant mode, and it was hard to stop once she got going. Felicity was mostly over the break-up with Ray, but whenever a story hit the news that was obviously his doing, she’d get angry all over again about how much he’d hidden from her, and how blind she was not to have suspected.

The stomach pain had gotten bad enough that she couldn’t hide it anymore, and when Dig asked her what was wrong, she jumped up from her chair and started pacing. She’d totally gone off on Ray’s whole “in order to protect you, I have to lie to you on a daily basis” thing, and her anger was manifesting physically, which was a well-documented phenomenon. She’d just started on his stupid-looking costume (“It looks like something a four-year-old would draw—but a four-year-old would remember the cape”) when a vicious cramp bent her over double. She was trying to remember how to breathe when Diggle scooped her up and took her to the hospital.

Morphine was kind of amazing. She could almost forget that it felt like her appendix was trying to claw its way free from her body. Then she started hallucinating. Felicity was pretty sure she knew it was happening, because she saw six Diggles and that just wasn’t right. Too many pairs of bowling ball-sized arms. And there were two of Roy, which didn’t make sense. Why six Diggles but only two Roys? She was going to ask, but she got distracted by the glowing green rabbits hopping around their feet. But it was after her boys were shooed out and she was whisked off to pre-op when things got weird.

Suddenly Oliver was there. But he wasn’t supposed to be. He couldn’t. He was on some super-secret solo mission for ARGUS as a favor to Amanda Waller. She had unfrozen the Queen family accounts and refitted the new lair, and she expected repayment in the form of Oliver doing her bidding whenever she asked. It sucked, and something would have to be done about it, but Felicity figured it could wait until she wasn’t surrounded by morphine-induced illusions.

_Vivid_ illusions. There was only one of him, but he was  _so real_ . Felicity felt his hand squeeze hers. When he bent down to whisper in her ear, she could smell him. But he shouldn’t be there—he couldn’t be real. And the things he was saying to her . . . they couldn’t be real. They were things she was sure Oliver had never said to anyone, things Ray certainly never said to her. They were  _promises_ , sweet and hopeful, and they hurt her heart in a way that the morphine didn’t touch because they weren’t—they couldn’t be real.

She didn’t realize she was saying it out loud, over and over, until Oliver reached down and caressed her cheek, a gesture he’d only made once before. The last time she was high on pain medication, in fact.

“It’s real,” he said in that almost-whisper that was just for her.

“Why now?” she asked. She didn’t entirely believe him, but she was going to get some answers, even illusory ones.

Oliver smiled, and that made her heart hurt in a different way. A beautiful way.

“I guess major surgery makes me brave,” he said.

“I’m still not convinced you’re real,” Felicity mumbled. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is exactly where I should be, and I’ll be happy to convince you I’m real when you wake up after surgery.”

A lump formed in her throat. “What if I don’t wake up?”

“You will. They’re just taking out your appendix.”

Felicity shook her head. “What if I die thinking my mind was playing tricks on me?”

“You won’t die, Felicity,” he said softly.

“Those things you just said . . . if I don’t remember them when I wake up—”

“I’ll remind you.”


	8. FF #8: Nothing to Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I'm not done with this particular scenario because I keep writing more. Some wonderful person gave me the first line as a prompt last night on Tumblr. Bless them--it was the push I needed to get going. Now I'm back to being only two weeks behind. :P

**FF #8: Nothing to Hide**

 

“Why is my desk chair in three pieces?”

Oliver’s head snapped up.

“And why are you behind my desk?” Felicity asked. “Are you . . . were you hiding?”

“Of course not,” Oliver scoffed.

“Then explain the travesty that is my chair, please.”

“There was an incident,” said Diggle. “Involving those.” He nodded over his shoulder at the tractor tire Oliver sometimes liked to whack with a sledgehammer.

Felicity gasped. “It’s not taken apart, then? It’s  _broken_ ?”

“Yeah, and for once, it wasn’t my fault.” Roy peeked out from behind a training dummy. “So I’m just gonna go. Give ‘em hell, Blondie.” He clapped her on the shoulder and then scurried up the stairs.

Felicity turned to face Oliver. “If you’ve got nothing to hide, then explain,” she said. “The truth, please.”

“I may have lost control of the sledgehammer. A little bit.” He wasn’t looking her in the eye, but at some spot on the wall over her left shoulder.

“That doesn’t sound like you. That sounds more like something Roy would do. How’d it happen?” she asked.

“I was distracted,” he replied.

“By what? A dancing clown with a flamingo on its head?”

She crossed the room and knelt to examine what was left of the chair. When she looked up, she saw . . . was Oliver Queen  _blushing_ ?

“Was it a naked dancing clown with a flamingo on its head?” she asked.

“What is it like inside your brain?” Diggle muttered, shaking his head.

“No one was naked!” Oliver half-shouted.

Felicity stared at him.

“You better tell her, man,” Dig said to Oliver. “Your embarrassment is nothing compared to the wrath she could still unleash.”

“I’m glad you have a healthy respect for my skills,” Felicity said. “If it wasn’t a naked clown, what was the big distraction that would send a sledgehammer flying fifteen feet across the room to destroy my beloved chair? I’ve seen the destruction—you have nothing to hide now.”

Oliver mumbled something inaudible.

Felicity cupped her hand around her ear. “What was that? I didn’t catch that.”

“It was you.”

She nodded in understanding. “You were ranting about Ray again, huh? You know, rage is a totally acceptable response to betrayal. I mean, I felt like putting my fist through a window. I still do sometimes.”

Dig smiled. An indulgent smile, one that she often found really annoying.

“I’m not kidding,” Felicity continued. “I know it’s hard to picture. I don’t strike most people as the angry, destructive type, but boy, was I furious. I might have even thrown something. More than one thing, as a matter of fact.”

“What did you throw, Felicity?” Diggle asked.

Oliver seemed to be collecting himself, steeling his thoughts with deep breaths through his nose. But it wasn’t really working—he was snorting like a mad bull.

“I threw pillows,” she admitted. “And this dumb penguin he won me at a street fair. He used his powers to win it. I ended up giving it to the little girl who lives across the street from me.”

“Cute,” said Dig.

“It wasn’t cute,” Felicity replied. “It had this creepy look on its face, like it was giving me the stink-eye. Oh, I should have given it to you for the baby,” she said to Dig.

“Not if it had a creepy stare. Don’t want the kid to have little penguin nightmares.”

She shuddered. “Good point.”

“Speaking of, Lyla has a doctor’s appointment, and I’m going to be late.” He leveled Oliver with a stony stare. “Tell her,” he said.

When Diggle had left, Oliver sat down in the totally uncool, non-Felicity, not ergonomic chair and ran a hand over his face.

Felicity approached him. “Okay, Oliver, you’re starting to freak me out. What’s going on? What really happened?”

He took another deep breath, still not meeting her gaze. “Diggle and I were talking while I was working out. Just talking about normal stuff. Lyla, and the baby, and whether or not he can put together a crib without crushing the pieces in his giant hands . . .”

Felicity smiled.

“So I was asking him, ‘How do you do it? How do you create a life for yourself when what you do is so dangerous? How do you justify the risk?’ And he said, ‘You don’t justify risks. If it’s important, if it means everything, you take the risk.’ And I said, ‘What means everything to you?’ And he said I should be asking myself that.”

He covered his face with both hands. He was blushing again. It was really something to see, but it almost made Felicity feel as if the world had suddenly tilted sideways. She was totally unprepared.

“The thing is,” Oliver continued, his voice slightly muffled, “I know the answer. I have for a while. And I told him that.”

“And?” Felicity prompted him after he lapsed into silence.

“And he said he knew too. Because of course Diggle knows everything. He said . . . He said that a life with someone—that’s it not all up to me. It . . .”

Felicity felt sick. He was seconds away from telling her he was going back to Laurel. Or Sara. How creepy was it that she had no idea which Lance sister it might be? Maybe they were interchangeable, like Barbie heads.

She wanted to turn and run up the stairs, but this was her friend. Her best friend. And he was pouring his heart out to her. Oliver was actually talking about his feelings. She drew his hands down from his face, and he grasped her fingers like they were all that was keeping him from falling off a cliff.

“It’s also up to the other person,” she supplied. “Right? I wasn’t there, but I bet that’s what Dig said.”

The next words Oliver spoke tumbled out in a rush. “Yeah-he-said-that-and-then-he-told-me-to-just-ask-you-out-already.”

Felicity blinked a couple of times. She looked at him, and then she looked down at their joined hands.

“And that’s when I let go of the sledgehammer mid-swing. So would you go out with me, Felicity?”

The world tilted sideways again. She felt dizzy. There was a roar in her ears like she was holding up a seashell and listening in, only amplified.

A minute or two passed, and Felicity realized she was sitting. Somehow their positions had reversed, and she was sitting in the lame chair with Oliver standing in front of her, still holding both of her hands in his.

 "I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended,” he said.

 Why?”

He smiled. Now that he’d thrown it out there, he seemed much more relaxed. It was her turn now to be totally freaking out on the inside.

“Because apparently the idea of us dating made you almost faint.” He squeezed her hands and then placed them gently on her lap before letting go. He turned away.

“Oliver, wait. Where are you going?” she asked.

“Home, to pout and feel sorry for myself,” he said, his back still turned. “Maybe I’ll take a page out of your book and process with some ice cream. I’m okay. I’m not mad or anything. I just—I just wanted to give you the choice.”

“Oh. Well, if it helps at all, I was totally going to say yes before I blacked out.”

Oliver turned around. Felicity felt a little smile work its way across her face.

“That does help,” he said. “Do you want me to ask you again?”

“Oh, God, no. Don’t put either of us through that again. I’d faint for real, and you’d probably throw up or give yourself an aneurysm or something,” she said, shaking her head. “Why are we both so worked up about it?”

His answer was so quiet, Felicity wondered later if she really had actually heard it, or if she’d just imagined it.

“Because it matters,” he said. “Because it means everything.”


	9. FF #9: Sleepless Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity answers another question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one. Enjoy! Special thanks to thatmasquedgirl. Y'all should send her some love, because if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have posted half the stuff I have.

**FF #9: Sleepless Nights**

 

It had been a week of sleepless nights. A whole week of curling up in the weirdly shaped chair next to the bed and closing her eyes fruitlessly. Seven days craning her neck to stare up at the TV bolted to the ceiling, watching CNN and old sitcom reruns on TVLand, of ordering meals for one from the cafeteria menu and then losing her appetite when she eyed the feeding tube, of endless cups of coffee and cans of Mountain Dew from the tiny kitchen off the ICU waiting room.

Seven days in silence, seven nights watching his chest rise and fall, wondering if he would wake up, or if it would always be like this, or if the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor would become one long tone.

Anger would come later, anger at the person who had done this, who had forced Oliver into an impossible situation. For now there was only the agony of seeing him in limbo, with machines breathing for him, feeding him, watching over him.

There was no one else, and that thought came with its own brand of sorrow. No Moira, no Thea, not even Diggle. He stopped by, of course, every day, to make sure she was eating at least a little bit, to bring her clothes and library books that she would open and then not read. But he couldn’t stay long, not with a new baby at home, and Felicity never would have asked him to.

This night had been the worst. The doctor had interrupted dinner—a cheese enchilada she was mostly just picking at—to tell her he was concerned that Oliver had not woken up yet. They planned to remove the breathing tube briefly the next day to see if he would start breathing on his own. Felicity had shoved the plate away, her miniscule appetite completely gone.

The TV was on, but the volume was low, and Felicity wasn’t watching it. She sat in the chair with her legs drawn up, her chin resting on her knees. She was so, so tired but terrified of losing him while she was asleep, so she continued the struggle to keep her eyes open.

The room always felt a little too warm to her, and that wasn’t helping. She raised her head and put her feet on the floor, intending to get another cup of coffee, when his hand twitched in hers.

It had been hard for her to hold Oliver’s hand at first. Partly because it took a while to sink in that he wasn’t going to wake up right away. And then there was the fact that an IV was coming out of the hand closest to her. The first time her fingers brushed over the port, her stomach rolled and she had to leave the room for a moment. But once she’d learned to steer clear of that, Felicity had held his hand nearly every minute she was awake.

His fingers twitched again and she dared to look at his face. His eyes were still closed, but was she seeing movement there?

“Oliver?” Her voice was rough as if she’d been asleep for hours. “Oliver?”

He squeezed her hand, and it almost made her jump. She looked down at his hand, squeezed back with both of hers. The plum nail polish she’d been wearing that night was mostly gone. She’d picked at her nails in the ER waiting room as Diggle had tried to convince the staff to let at least one of them back to see Oliver. His hand was huge, but his fingers were long and slender. And they were definitely squeezing back.

A quick call to the nurse started a flurry of activity. Oliver’s reflexes were checked, his eyes, his blood pressure, his pulse. The breathing tube was removed while Felicity still stood there, Oliver squeezing her hand so hard that it brought tears to her eyes. In another few moments, everyone was gone. The doctor had been paged but hadn’t arrived yet, and they were alone again.

“Felicity?” He opened one blue eye, then the other, squinting.

She half-stood to reach the light over the bed and snapped it off. “I’m right here,” she said.

“Why?”

That made her laugh. “Are you kidding? Where else would I be?”

“With Ray.”

Her eyes widened. “Oliver, you know that ended months ago, don’t you? Ray doesn’t even live in Starling City anymore.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Yeah, I knew that. I just—I still expect you to go to him when things get bad, I guess.”

“But I never did,” Felicity replied. “That was part of the problem.”

“I thought you broke up with him because he lied to you about who he was . . . what he could do.” He was searching her face—she wondered what he hoped to find there.

“That was the main reason. But also because I didn’t go to him when things got bad. Or even when things were good. He was never my first call.”

“Who was?” But by the look on his face, he already knew damn well who.

“Stop smirking, Oliver. You know you are.”

His grin widened, and she couldn’t help smiling back. It was his smile that had finally clued her in. One night, months after she and Ray had called it quits, Oliver smiled at her. For no reason, really, but it dawned on her that he was looking at her the same way he had on the beach after they dropped off Slade. When she had given him an out and he hadn’t taken it.

“You don’t look well,” he said, the grin disappearing. “Are you—were you hurt? I don’t remember. I don’t even—”

“I’m fine,” said Felicity. “I was a little sore, but you were the one who took the brunt of the crash. You lost consciousness, and this is the first time you’ve been awake since then. You scared everyone. You scared me, and I’m not happy about it.”

“But you look . . . Have you been sleeping?” Oliver asked.

“Well, no. Would you be able to? If it was me?”

“No. I would have worn a hole in the floor pacing.”

“You would have done that thing with your fingers,” she said, taking them as she talked about them, and curling them to imitate the bowstring-plucking motion he always made when he was worked up or nervous.

“You weren’t hurt at all? It’s just from not sleeping?” he asked.

“And not eating much. And not leaving the room. I haven’t seen the sun in a while,” she said. “Do I really look that awful?”

There it was again, that beach smile. Like he was just basking in front of a fire and feeling absolutely content. It was powerful. And sweet. And more than a little scary.

“You’re always beautiful,” he said. “I don’t remember. Did you—did you answer before the crash?”

Trust him to remember that part. Felicity had been thinking about that conversation for days, playing it over and over in her head. She’d come up with a thousand ways to respond, but none of them seemed right.

“Do you remember me telling you I was really scared?” she asked.

Oliver nodded solemnly. “You were afraid it would change things. In a bad way. And that it could end badly, like your parents. I’m pretty sure you said something unflattering about my relationship track record too.”

Her cheeks flamed.

“It’s okay. It’s the truth.” He was still smiling, which was making it hard for her to think, but his eyelids were drooping. “And I said it could just be one date. If we had one date, and you didn’t want a second one, I wouldn’t pressure you, and we wouldn’t even have to talk about it again.”

“That’s where the conversation ended,” said Felicity.

“Could you answer me now?” he asked, a slight pleading note in his voice. “Before I fall asleep? What were you going to say?”

But his eyes were shut now. Waking up from a weeklong coma was hard work. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I was going to say yes,” she whispered.


	10. FF #10: Stroke of Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity gets out of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains spoilers for Season 3, so if you haven't watched the trailer and talk coming out of Comic-Con, beware of spoilers. MUCH thanks to thatmasquedgirl, who helped me get unstuck when the writing came to a grinding halt about 450 words in, and then read more than one draft afterwards. Which totally breaks the one-hour rule. Oh well. This story also has a playlist that I listened to while writing the first draft. It appears at the end. And the quote Oliver mentions is from a book called Observatory Mansions, by Edward Carey.

**FF #10: Stroke of Luck**

 

_“People tend to think that happiness is a stroke of luck, something that will descend like fine weather if you’re fortunate. But happiness is the result of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly.” -–Elizabeth Gilbert_

It didn’t start out as a strategy. It started with him grasping at straws, desperate to cheer her up, because seeing her gloomy didn’t just hurt—it wasn’t right. It felt as if a fundamental law of the universe had been turned upside-down. He was supposed to be the gloomy one.

So he asked Felicity out.

Not on an actual date. Oliver had learned a few things from his misspent youth, and he knew better than to approach her so soon after a breakup. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t do something together as friends, and it was clear to him that he needed to step in. She had spent far too many nights moping in the Foundry, come in to work too many mornings with dark circles under her eyes.

Oliver rang her doorbell early on a Saturday morning. Early for normal people. He’d actually been awake since 3:30, rehearsing what he would say, trying to hit just the right note between casual and concerned. He didn’t count on Felicity starting out mad at him for waking her up so early.

“Oliver!” she’d exclaimed after she’d thrown open the door. “The sun isn’t even all the way up yet, let alone me. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call first?”

He smiled, taking in her pajama-clad figure, her long tousled hair, her eyes not hidden behind glasses. “I figured it would be harder for you to say no in person.”

“Say no to what?”

“To getting out of the house. But if I’m lucky, you’re not going to say no.” He stepped forward, but she put her hand on his chest to stop him.

“Maybe I am,” said Felicity. “It’s early. I haven’t had coffee yet. My alarm hasn’t even gone off. It’s early, and I did mention the lack of coffee and how early it is?”

“If you let me in, I promise our first stop will be for coffee. At that place you like so much,” Oliver said.

“The Brew.” Eyes closed, she leaned against the doorframe. “Mmmm, coffee made by someone else. I could handle that.” She opened her eyes and squinted at him. “But what am I getting dressed for?”

When he wasn’t rehearsing what he’d say, he’d spent a lot of time in the middle of the night wondering whether or not to surprise her. In the end, he’d decided against it. She wasn’t in a state to be surprised. It reminded him of a quote he’d read somewhere: “Suspense was bad for our unfit hearts.”

“There’s a farmers market just outside the city,” Oliver told her.

Felicity steepled her fingers under her chin. “So. Outdoors. And comfortable shoes.” She held the door open, and he followed her inside.

“You can wait in the living room,” she said. “I guess you’re going to get lucky.”

She was halfway up the stairs before she realized what she’d said. She leaned over the bannister. “Not that you are. Not like that, not ‘getting lucky’ getting lucky.”

Oliver grinned as she blushed.

“I just meant I was saying yes,” she continued. “To going out with you. Not ‘going out with you’ going out, because this is not a date. Dates for us end in explosions and head wounds and sacrifices of happiness . . . And I really need to stop talking now.” Felicity ran up the stairs.

Her reference to their first and only date was like a sucker punch to his stomach. He had fallen all over himself trying to ask her to dinner. But he had proven once again that he had the worst kind of luck. Their perfect night had ended in fire and blood—her blood. Seeing her lying unconscious on the med table, knowing that Oliver Queen, not the Arrow, was responsible, he had done exactly what she had just said. He had sacrificed his happiness to protect her.

These were not pleasant thoughts. He had only recently decided that he was still human enough to deserve some measure of happiness, and that he wanted it with Felicity.

Oliver walked around the living room to distract himself. He had been in her home a few times, but on most of those occasions, he had climbed in through her bedroom window to check on her after she’d been injured. He’d never been inside long enough to take in much.

Now he saw that her living room was cozy, and so very much Felicity, from the ridiculously comfortable couch to the bright throw pillows to the framed photos scattered on every surface. Many of the pictures were candids of himself and Diggle, Roy, and Sara, and even a selfie Felicity had taken with Nyssa. The few unfamiliar shots featured a younger, darker-haired Felicity—he assumed they were from her time at MIT. He saw nothing from her childhood.

“Comfy shoes!” Felicity called out, bounding down the stairs.

Oliver straightened from where he had bent to look closer at a picture of himself squeezed between Diggle and Felicity, trying to determine where it had been taken. She hopped over the last step and came to stand next to him.

“That was at Big Belly,” she said, indicating the photo. “After you came back from the island the second time.”

He turned to her. She’d put up her hair in its usual ponytail, and she changed into jeans and a deep pink top. She was carrying her bag and a light jacket. Her eyes still looked a little bleary from sleep, but she was smiling, and she was beautiful. He bit down the compliment before it could escape from his lips. Too soon.

That was when Oliver moved from spontaneity to strategy. He decided that this outing would be the first step in a plan to woo Felicity.

It wouldn’t be easy, and it would take some time. The pain of her breakup was still fresh, and he would have to convince her that he was serious, that he was ready to fight for his own happiness.

All of this passed through his mind in an instant as he turned and looked at her. She was still smiling.

“Let’s go before I change my mind and go back to bed,” Felicity said.

After stopping at The Brew to pick up a black coffee for himself and a triple-shot espresso with cream and sugar for Felicity, they drove to the farmers market. Oliver wanted to hold her hand as they walked, but he settled for getting her to take his arm. There was some babbling about him being her escort, and there was blushing all around, but they both relaxed eventually.

Oliver bought almond croissants from a bakery stall for breakfast. Felicity had never been to an outdoor market, but she quickly warmed to the experience. Somehow she’d gotten the idea in her head that every posted price was an invitation to negotiate. She let go of his arm to talk with her hands, and Oliver watched in amazement as she bartered lower costs for strawberries, cantaloupe, and peaches.

She took his arm again and sighed. “I guess we should do the sensible, grown-up thing and get some vegetables.”

“We do have a growing boy to feed.”

Felicity stared at him.

“Roy,” he said.

She laughed then, and the world turned right side up again. Oliver realized then that happiness wasn’t a matter of luck—it was a matter of effort, and he was ready to participate relentlessly.

 

**Playlist**  
“Full of Grace”—Sarah McLachlan  
“Fly-swatter Ice Water Blues”—Lyle Lovett  
“All Fall Down”—OneRepublic  
“Mysterious Ways”—U2  
“The Longest Time”—Billy Joel  
“I Know You By Heart”—Eva Cassidy  
“Morning Song”—Jewel  
“Here With Me”—Dido


	11. FF #11: Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a scare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know where this came from, but once I started picturing it, I had to sit down right away to write it because dialogue was already playing in my head. Sorry not sorry for all the Doctor Who.

**FF #11: Who Are You?**

 

There was a dark-haired stranger in the Foundry.

Oliver’s first thought was of Helena Bertinelli, but she was in federal prison. And that bright red dress was very unlike her. He crept down the steps in silence and approached Felicity’s chair. Moving swiftly, he had the woman on her feet and his arm over her throat before she realized she wasn’t alone. She flailed, slapping at him ineffectually.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a growl similar to his Arrow voice. “Who are you?”

He put his hand around her throat, lightly squeezing, and turned her around. He found himself staring into Felicity’s wide eyes. Oliver let go of her and staggered backward.

“Okay, note to self,” she said. “It’s time to institute a no-Halloween-costumes rule in the lair.”

Halloween? Oliver took her in. It didn’t really look like she was wearing a costume, but it was definitely different. Aside from the darker hair, she’d replaced her glasses with contacts, and instead of bare arms, her red dress had long sleeves. She wore a utility belt around her waist. Besides the various pouches on it, he identified a hand mixers and a miniature blowtorch hanging from it.

“Who are you supposed to be?” he asked.

“Don’t you mean ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’” she rasped in a poor imitation of the synthesized Arrow voice. It made her cough. She gingerly explored her neck with her fingers.

“Are you hurt?” He reached for her, then thought better of it.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Felicity. I thought someone had broken in. I never would have laid a hand on you if I’d known it was you.”

She took a step toward him, but he backed away. God, now he was  _literally_ hurting everyone he touched.

“Oliver, I’m  _fine_ .”

Felicity treated him like a skittish animal, approaching him cautiously with her hand outstretched, fingers curled in and palm facing down. She took another step. He forced himself to stay where he was, somehow knowing that backing away again would hurt her, but he rubbed his fingers together nervously. Another step, and her hand was on his arm.

“See? No harm done,” Felicity said, tilting her head back to expose her neck. True, her pale skin was unmarked, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t done her any harm.

One step closer, and her arms went around his waist. The hugging was still new—he hadn’t gotten used to it. He reached an arm around her back to return the embrace. Her forehead just came up to his chin.

“I overreacted,” he said into her hair.

“Yeah, you did,” Felicity murmured. “It’s kind of a pattern with you.”

“Hey.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes.

“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” said Oliver.

“I know.”

She shifted in his arms, squeezing him tighter. Something hanging off her belt dug into his hip. He drew back without letting go of her.

“Is that a mixer on your belt, or are you just happy to see me?” he asked.

The bright, clear bell-ring of her laughter filled the room.

“I’m Oswin, from  _Doctor Who_ ,” said Felicity. “You know, Soufflé Girl. Except you  _don’t_ know, do you? So far you’ve resisted my attempts to indoctrinate you.”

“Well, I’m starting to crumble,” he said. “I have a feeling it’d help me understand about fifty percent more of what you say.”

“The Doctor calls Oswin Soufflé Girl before he knows her name, because she goes on and on about making the perfect soufflé.”

“Hence the mixer,” Oliver concluded.

“Hence the mixer. She didn’t actually have a mixer on her belt, but some of the stuff I couldn’t even identify, so I had to improvise. But it’s just Halloween. I’m not cosplaying for a con or anything.” She shook her head. “Anyway, it’s Oswin Oswald, Soufflé Girl. Sometimes Clara Oswin Oswald, sometimes just Clara Oswald.”

“How many names does she have?” he asked.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. That’s why the Doctor also calls her the Impossible Girl.”

Oliver realized they were still hugging. He was reluctant to let go, but being conscious of it made him feel awkward.

“So why the blowtorch?” he asked as he released her.

“I’ve just been telling people she makes a kickass crème brulee.” She shrugged. “But who knows? Maybe it’s her secret weapon for vanquishing aliens.”

“Maybe so,” he agreed, though he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Come on,” she said, linking her arm through his and pulling him toward the stairs. “You owe me some candy corn for coming down here and scaring the crap out of me.”


	12. FF #12: Whatever It Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a houseguest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the season 2.5 comic within. I felt compelled to add my own take on the teasers from MG on Twitter. So this is post-2x23.

**FF #12: Whatever It Takes**

Felicity felt awful. The constant ache at the base of her skull had turned into a migraine, and all the plane-hopping had made her nauseous. She just wanted to crawl into bed and crash for twelve hours. But there was a problem, and she wasn’t sure if she could persuade Oliver toward her solution.

She’d done her best to keep their interactions light and loose in the hours since that awkward moment on the beach. (He’d only said three words—it didn’t count as an actual conversation.) But it wasn’t easy for her. She kind of needed a break from his face, but if she could talk Oliver into what she had in mind, no break would be coming.

He hadn’t said a word since they left the Starling City airport. He could be thinking about anything, or nothing. Or he could be thinking about the reality of life without the Queen fortune and the Queen mansion, and it would be the perfect time for her to speak up. But Felicity hesitated.

She turned to look out the window. It was dark, the middle of the night, but the rental car’s headlights were enough to show her some of the destruction wrought by Slade Wilson and his mirakuru army. Smoke from distant fires rose above the skyline. Patches of darkness where buildings should be indicated power outages. Most of the streetlights and traffic signals weren’t working. The roads were deserted but for the occasional cop car.

Nope. Felicity had to say something now. She couldn’t let Oliver go back to the ruins of the Foundry, or his dank little secondary hiding place. He had to be twice as exhausted as she was, still grieving his mother, and he’d been limping heavily since he’d landed their plane in Hong Kong.

“Stay with me tonight,” she said so softly she could barely hear herself.

She turned her head to face forward. Diggle caught her eye in the rear-view mirror, and she shot him a look that said she knew what she was doing.

“Felicity.”

_No_ , he meant.  _I’ll be fine on my own._ She understood perfectly, just by the way he said her name. How did he do that?

“You need real rest, Oliver,” she said a little louder. “And you don’t have a lot of options.”

He glanced at Diggle, as she knew he would.

“Dig would never say it, but I don’t think he wants to bring a houseguest home to Lyla. He was probably planning on the we’re-having-a-baby freak-out and celebratory sexy times.” Felicity put a hand to her forehead. “I say ‘sexy times’ way too much.”

“Yes, you do,” said Diggle. “And you’re right. About not really wanting to bring home a guest. No offense, man,” he added, glancing at Oliver.

“I guess he  _would_ say it,” Felicity mumbled.

“You’re tired,” Oliver pointed out, “and I don’t want to impose.”

“Nobody  _wants_ to impose. But they do it when they have to. You’re tired too. Way more tired than me. You’re going to come home with me, and you’re going straight to bed.”

“It’s actually good idea,” Diggle said. “If she has a concussion, she shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

That’s what convinced Oliver. She could see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t do it for himself, but he’d do it for her. She kind of loved it, but it also made her sad. He didn’t even think he deserved the chance at a good night’s sleep.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Home, Jeeves.”

Dig rolled his eyes.

Her street was quiet and dark. The power was out. Diggle refused to drop them at the curb. He parked illegally and insisted on clearing the place before either Oliver or Felicity went in. Oliver protested, but he was too wiped out to make much of it, and he was leaning on Felicity after limping up the front steps.

“It’s clear,” Dig said upon his return. “Nothing looks out of place. Power’s out, and your garbage smells a little funky. I opened a window.”

Felicity smiled. “My hero.” She rose on her tiptoes to hug him. “Tell Lyla hi and congratulations.”

“I will.” He pecked her cheek, then clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “This’ll go a lot easier on you if you just do what she tells you,” he said.

Oliver’s mouth quirked up at the corners. They watched Diggle trot down the steps and get back into the car.

“Are there more stairs inside?” Oliver asked her.

“Yes, but we don’t have to tackle them just yet.”

He draped his arm over her shoulder, and she wrapped her own arm around his waist to help him inside.

“Straight to the couch, mister,” she said. “You need some ice on that knee, assuming it isn’t all melted by now.”

Felicity deposited Oliver on the purple couch. It seemed kind of on-the-nose to put him on the dark green one. Plus, it was more of a loveseat. He was still too tall for the purple one, but at least he could put up his foot on the coffee table.

In the kitchen, the scent of overripe garbage smacked her in the face. “A  _little_ funky?” she mumbled.

Using the flashlight app on her phone, Felicity crossed the room and opened the freezer. The ice was now a puddle of cold water, but there were a couple of gel packs that still felt pretty cold. She grabbed both of them and went back to the living room.

“I like it here,” said Oliver, though his eyes were closed, his head tipped against the back of the sofa. “It’s very you.”

“What does that even mean?” she asked, setting one of the cold packs on his knee. “It babbles a lot? Puts its foot in its mouth over and over? Because that’s something I’d really like to see.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “It’s cozy. Feels like home.”

She couldn’t begin to think of answer to that, so she chose to ignore it, closing her own eyes and holding the second cold pack to the bump on her forehead. It wouldn’t help with the pain—her migraine was stabbing behind her right eye now—but the swelling would go down, and it gave her something to do besides thinking about the things Oliver said.

Large hands closed over hers, moving the gel pack away from her face. His gentle fingers probed the wound.

Eyes still shut, she said, “Doesn’t need stitches. Dig checked.”

“I know,” Oliver replied. “I’m more worried about the blow you took than the blood. I could tell you were hurting after the accident. And it’s worse now, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, migraine— _ow_ .” She hissed as he put a little pressure on the bump.

“You probably do have a concussion,” he said. “I don’t see how you couldn’t.”

“Awesome. There really isn’t anything to do for that, is there?”

“Rest. Take it easy. Tell me if anything changes, if you get nauseous or dizzy or confused. And I’ll have to wake you every couple of hours.”

She blew out a breath. “Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of both of us getting rest? I can just set an alarm to wake me.”

“And if it doesn’t work? If you sleep through it, or something’s wrong? No,” he said. She could feel him shake his head. “I’ll do it myself.”

“But  _you_ need to sleep, Oliver,” she insisted. “More than just a couple of hours at a time. You’ve been through hell in the last few days.”

Cold touched her forehead. He’d brought the gel pack back up to her face.

“You can’t change years of sleeping habits just by having me stay here,” he said. “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since before the  _Queen’s Gambit_ , and I’m not going to have one tonight.”

Felicity wanted to argue, but she also really wanted her pajamas. And her pillow. God, she loved her pillow.

She opened her eyes and pulled his hand away from her face. The gel pack dropped to the cushion.

“A couple of hours at a time, then,” she said, holding out her hand. “We both need it.”

Oliver stared at her hand like it had just sprouted wavering tentacles.

“Come on,” Felicity said. “You can’t haul your ass up and down the stairs all night, not with that knee. If you insist on waking me up every few hours to see if I’m still breathing, then let’s go. You need to be in my bed.”

He took her hand and let her help him up. He was grinning.

“Oh, shut up.”

His grin widened. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, you were thinking really loud at me, and you don’t have to,” said Felicity. “I know how it sounded.”

“You’re blushing.”

She groaned. “Why do people always feel the need to point that out? Of course I’m blushing. How could I  _not_ know? My face is on fire!”

It was unspeakably intimate, leading him upstairs, and she felt like every inch of skin, not just her face, was burning. She took a moment on the landing to steel herself.

“You okay?” Oliver asked.

“Fine,” she said. “Just . . . needed a second.”

At the top of the stairs, he leaned on her but not as hard as before.

“Guest room,” she said, gesturing at the first door and noticing her hand was still in his. “I turned it into an office because I never have guests, and I needed somewhere to put all the computer parts.”

“So you don’t really have a guest room,” Oliver said.

“No.”

“So when you said your bed . . .” His voice trailed off. It sounded different, somehow.

“I meant it,” Felicity replied. “Just the ‘my bed’ part, not the part where I totally sounded like I was coming onto you.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.” His lips were twitching upward again, and she sighed.

“Don’t torture me, Oliver. I can’t take it tonight.” Her hand went up to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have said the T word. I just—”

“Felicity.” He squeezed her other hand.

She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t really have to. She knew what he meant.  _It’s okay. You don’t have to be so careful around me. It’s just a word._

“Let’s just start over.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. There’s a bathroom downstairs, which doesn’t really matter because unless you heal as fast as Wolverine, you are  _not_ going back down those stairs for at least six hours.” She went a few more steps and pushed open her bedroom door. “My room,” she said. “Master bath.” She pointed to the door at the other end of the room.

Oliver was looking around, taking it all in. She glanced around to make sure she hadn’t left any stray underwear out or anything else really embarrassing. It seemed safe.

“You. Bed. Now.” With a hand on his bicep, she shoved him toward the bed. He stumbled forward and sat down hard on the mattress. “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot about your knee already.”

“Felicity, I’m fine,” he said, bending to remove his shoes. “Just do whatever you’d normally do.”

She laughed. “If this was a normal night, I’d be in bed with a bowl of ice cream and some  _Chuck_ episodes. And maybe a glass of zinfandel.”

Oliver looked up. “Zinfandel? Really?”

“It pairs well with mint chocolate chip,” she said loftily. “I Googled it.” She toed off her sneakers and went over to the dresser. Her Arrow scrapbook was on the floor between the bed and the dresser. She couldn’t let Oliver see  _that_ . She kicked it under the bed with her bare foot. It freaking  _hurt_ .

Felicity didn’t think she was up for a shower. Now that she was this close to the bed, the idea of standing up for much longer was incredibly unappealing. She opened her pajama drawer and grabbed the first thing on top.

“I don’t really have anything you could change into,” she said, turning around. “Oh.”

Oliver was already stretched out on the far side of the bed. He’d shed his jacket and his feet were bare, which was kind of hot. She shook her head. Thinking that way would only lead to madness.

“I’m good,” he said. “This pillow is—”

“I know.”

“Perfect,” he finished.

“That’s really the only word for it,” she said, staring at his feet. “I’m just going to . . . feet.”

“What?”

“Change!” she said. “I’m going to change.” She turned abruptly and entered the bathroom, maybe shutting the door a little too hard. Only then did she look at the pajamas she’d grabbed.

Great. They were green. Neon green, which hurt her sensitive eyes. “BYTE ME” was written boldly across the chest of the tank top, which was a little snug, and the shorts would show more skin than she wanted to for sharing a bed with Oliver.

Oh God, she was going to  _share_ a  _bed_ with  _Oliver_ . For real. Not for real as in sex, but for real as in it was really going to happen, the two of them side by side in a confined area. And he’d said . . . He’d said he  _loved_ her.

Felicity leaned against the counter, bracing her hands on the lip of the sink. She felt dizzy.

After she pushed her glasses up on her head and splashed some water on her face, she quickly changed into the bright pajamas. Her head pounded, and all she wanted to do was fall into bed and pretend Oliver wasn’t there. Like that was even possible.

She opened the door and padded out into the bedroom. Oliver leaned against the headboard with his hands clasped behind his head. The perfect pillow was on the empty side of the bed. His eyes were closed. She didn’t think he was asleep yet, but she thought maybe, just maybe, she could slip under the covers without him getting an eyeful of her ridiculous pj’s and an awful lot of leg. Felicity crept toward the bed, then froze when Oliver opened one eye.

“Is your bed this awesome, or am I just that tired?” he asked.

“The pillow is awesome,” she replied. “The bed is just okay.” She was a hand’s breadth away from it now. Just one more step.

He opened both eyes. And they widened.  _Damn_ . His gaze swept down her legs and back up to linger on her chest.

“Is there—are there actual flames coming from my face?” she asked him, reaching up to touch her cheek. “Because it sure feels like it.”

He made a noise that might have been a laugh if it was anyone other than Oliver.

“You were supposed to keep your eyes closed,” Felicity said.

“I didn’t know that was the rule. ‘Byte me’?”

“They’re nerd pajamas,” she explained. “I have a whole drawer full of them, but of course I had to pull out the worst-looking ones.”

“The worst? Or the best?” he asked, smirking.

“Shut  _up_ .” She threw the pillow at him. While he caught it, she threw back the comforter and climbed into the bed. She pulled the bedspread up to her chin, even though she was hot, and turned onto her side, facing away from him.

“Felicity?”

“Hmmm?”

“The light’s still on.”

“ _Crap!_ ” Her volume caused him to flinch. Of course the light was still on. She threw back the covers again.

“I can get it,” Oliver said, sitting up.

“No, you can’t, limpy boy. Stay in bed.”

Holding her head up high and pretending she was fully, sensibly clothed, she stomped across the room, closed the flashlight app on her phone, and stomped back to the bed. She huffed loudly as she flopped back onto the bed. In the dark, she’d landed too close to him, her head colliding with his arm. She began to pull away, but he reached around her shoulders and pulled her in, tucking her into his side.

“You actually make a really good pillow,” she said, her voice muffled in his shirt.

“Felicity?”

“Now what?”

“I’ll admit it was kind of hot when you told me to stay in bed, but please don’t ever call me ‘limpy boy’ again.”

“Oliver, shut  _up_ . We are both going to get some sleep tonight, whatever it takes.”


	13. FF #13: Silent as the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity receives a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you cut out all the time I spent procrastinating, this might actually have taken about an hour to write. Much thanks to smoakandarrow, who listened to me whine about not being able to translate my own notes I'd written for this prompt. :P

**FF #13: Silent as the Grave**

 

Diggle stopped taping his hands in preparation to spar with Oliver and looked up. His little boy sat snug in his forward-facing carrier, strapped to Felicity’s chest. She was cooing in his hear and bouncing a little as she typed. He couldn’t make out any words beyond the occasional “Digglet.”

The name Felicity came up with when Lyla was pregnant had stuck. They all called Andrew John “the Digglet” or just “Digglet.” Dig sometimes had to remind himself to call his son by his first name every once in a while.

The Digglet liked—no, the Digglet  _loved_ Felicity. As soon as his little eyes could focus, he started gravitating toward her bright colors. Now, four months old and colicky and away from his mom for the first time, the Digglet would only stop fussing for Felicity. Dig had shown up at her door at four-thirty that morning. The baby was in full shriek mode, and neither of them had gotten any sleep. Felicity held out her arms, and as soon as she had the Digglet, he began to calm down.

“How do you do that?” Dig asked.

Felicity spun her chair around slowly. “Do what?”

“You have such a way with him.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t even like kids.” She looked stricken. “I love  _your_ kid, don’t get me wrong. I just . . . I don’t know what to do with kids. I’ve never been around them much, even when I  _was_ one.” Felicity craned her neck around to make eye contact with the baby. He burbled happily. “I guess he just likes me.”

“Catnip for difficult men,” Diggle muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “Makes me feel like a bad father if I can’t even calm down my own son.”

“Oh, Dig, you’re a great father,” said Felicity. She got up and padded across the floor in bare feet. “Sometimes babies are just fussy.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “I asked my mom. ‘Placid’ was the word she used.”

Felicity grinned. “I bet that didn’t last long once you started walking. What about Lyla? What kind of baby was she?”

“Oh, she was a pistol from day one.”

“Then maybe this little guy takes after his mom,” she said, bouncing the baby up and down a little. She nodded toward the table. “I brought muffins. Homemade. They should still be warm.”

“When did you have time to bake muffins?” Dig asked. “When you sent me home to get some sleep, I thought  _you_ were going to get some sleep too. That was kind of the whole point—everybody wins.”

“Well, humans—even miniature ones—are unpredictable,” Felicity said. “Digglet here wasn’t very happy whenever I quit moving, so I just strapped him in and started baking. These things are genius,” she said, pulling at the carrier’s straps where they crossed over her shoulders. “Hands-free child care is the only way to go.”

“What kind of muffins?” Dig wandered over to the table, which was covered with four muffin-filled platters. “Damn, girl. You baked for five hours?”

“Didn’t have anything better to do. We watched cartoons and I baked.” Felicity pointed at each platter. “Banana, carrot raisin, chocolate chip, and blueberry. No nuts, of course. Just stuff I had on hand.”

Diggle peered at one of the platters. “You had fresh blueberries on hand?”

She shrugged. “Oliver took me to a farmers market on Saturday.”

Dig chose a blueberry muffin—how could he resist fresh blueberries?—and tore it in half. She was right. It was still warm. He took a bite.

“My god, woman,” he said around a delicious mouthful. “Marry me.”

“I don’t know,” Felicity said, pursing her lips. “How would Lyla feel about that?”

"Oh, she knows. If anything ever happened to her, you’d inherit me and the boy.”

She laughed. It was a nice sound. There’d been too little of it around since that asshole Ray had betrayed all of them and broken Felicity’s heart.

Another sound broke in on the laughter. Footsteps on the stairs.

“What’s so funny?” Oliver asked, coming into the room.

“Oh, nothing,” Felicity said, waving her hand dismissively. The Digglet followed her gesture with his eyes. “Dig wants to marry me.”

Oliver tsked, and his next words turned the rest of them as silent as the grave, even the Digglet.

“I already have first dibs.”


	14. FF #14: Oops!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity gets wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for thatmasquedgirl, who needed some fluff after 3x02. Don't we all. This ends a little abruptly for my taste, but I had been poking at it for hours and just wanted to be finished. So. Yeah. More to come! I still have seven more prompts.

**FF #14: Oops!**

 

Life wasn’t fair. Roy was pretty sure that knowledge had been passed to him inside the womb. In a life spent in the Glades, where very little was certain, that was one thing he knew for sure. And now, working with Oliver, the unfairness of life was confirmed for him almost on a daily basis.

Thinking about all the ways life wasn’t fair just made him want to pick up a bottle, so Roy was trying something different. Instead of complaining or wallowing—or aside from that, as he couldn’t give them up completely—he had started evening the score where he could. Nothing big, just righting little injustices here and there. It had started with Diggle. Roy called in a favor with an old friend who’d gone straight in order to get the Diggles a reputable baby-sitter whenever they needed one. Okay, that wasn’t exactly small, he was willing to admit.

Roy had done a lot of things for Felicity too. She seemed to attract trouble of all shapes and sizes. It was kind of fun to swoop in like an invisible fairy godmother and feed quarters into the parking meter that had expired with her red Mini Cooper still sitting in front of it. He liked leaving coffee on her desk at QC before she arrived. She had schooled him plenty of times on her coffee preferences, so he was pretty confident the mochas were just the way she liked them. Sometimes he’d also leave a chocolate-chocolate chip muffin or a fancy cupcake from the bakery near her house.

But today was about Oliver.

Roy had probably experience every emotion possible when it came to Oliver. Hero worship, anger, frustration . . . fear. Now he was just annoyed.

Felicity had been single for three months. That was plenty of time for her to have moved on from Ray Palmer. Especially since she’d been the one to dump his lying ass. So it was time for her and Oliver to get together. Roy had endured Oliver’s pining for even longer, and he’d had enough. Someone in their weird little group ought to be happy, even if it wasn’t him. Someone ought to be getting some.

But Oliver wasn’t doing anything. Roy had brought it up once, and Oliver said he was giving Felicity space. That was all well and good, but he’d been giving her space ever since that rocket blew up their first date, and lately, he sucked at the whole concept of “space.” To Roy, giving a girl space meant backing way the hell off, not lingering in her personal space, or touching her all the time.

God, the touching. If he saw one more comforting shoulder squeeze, he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. He’d already yelled more than once for them to just get a room already. Felicity would roll her eyes. Oliver would blush, which was kind of awesome. Roy was getting sick of it, though. Why couldn’t they just get their shit together?

He’d gotten enough information out of Felicity to know that the ball was in Oliver’s court. The dude was gun-shy, which Roy could understand. The last time Oliver had made a move, he’d broken the girl’s heart and she’d walked away. He needed someone to force his hand, and Roy was up for the job.

He waited for a night after Diggle had gone home. Normally Roy would take off too, but tonight he offered to grab a bite to eat when he heard Felicity’s stomach growl.

“Oh my God, you’d be my favorite person  _ever_ ,” she gushed. “I had half a bagel in my car this morning, and I worked straight through lunch.”

Roy could  _feel_ Oliver glowering in the corner.

“Well, clearly you need food before you can be expected to stand upright,” he said to Felicity. “What can I get you?”

She chewed her lower lip. “Mexican, if you can find something open this late. I don’t care what as long as it involves excessive amounts of cheese and guacamole.”

“Blondie, there’s no such thing as too much cheese and guac,” he said with a grin.

His plan came together at Manny’s, the taco truck parked on 33 rd that stayed open until 2 a.m. He bought the food and then stood at a nearby picnic table to deal with the drinks. He pried up the lid on one of the cups and then replaced it loosely before returning the cup to the drink carrier.

Back at the lair, Roy divided up the food and placed the drink with the loosened lid in front of Felicity. He was taking a big risk, but she was always so vocal about them keeping their food and beverages far away from all her tech stuff. Surely she wouldn’t break that rule herself.

Roy wolfed down his food and then moved to a far corner on the pretense of checking his bow. He couldn’t set things in motion and not stick around to enjoy the show.

They were as close as they’d been all night, knees almost touching under the table. Oliver picked at his food while sneaking glances at Felicity. She was oblivious as far as Roy could tell, talking a mile a minute about some computer thing before shifting into a story about getting kicked out of a Vegas casino before she was even old enough to drive.

Finally, she slowed down long enough to eat a few bites. Roy had asked Manny to make the chicken enchilada extra-spicy. The heat started affecting her pretty quickly, and she reached for her drink. Roy crossed his fingers.

The lid popped off and the cup hit the edge of the table on its way to the floor. Felicity gasped as a puddle of ice and Diet Coke spilled into her lap from the table. Oliver grabbed the pile of napkins and dropped all of them on her lap.

“Roy!” Felicity shouted.

He looked up. Her face was flushed red, and she kept opening and closing her mouth like a newly caught fish.

“This is a cheese enchilada,” she said. “Why is it an  _atomic_ cheese enchilada?” Not waiting for an answer, she turned to Oliver. “Do you need to put me out? Because it feels like my entire head is on fire.”

“Here.” Oliver pushed his drink toward her. “I’ll clean this up.”

Felicity checked the lid on Oliver’s cup before she drank. And drank. And drank. Oliver used a workout towel to mop up the soda on the table.

This wasn’t working. Roy had imagined the drink landing right in Felicity’s lap, forcing her to change clothes. That was why he’d hidden the change of clothes she kept near the clean towels. But she didn’t even seem to notice her dress had gotten wet, and there hadn’t been that much. Most of the soda was now on the floor.

Roy decided to take matters into his own hands. Or  _more_ into his own hands. He got a bottle of water, unscrewed the lid, and crossed the room. It was easy to pretend to slip on the puddle, less easy to make drenching Felicity’s purple dress look like an accident.

“Oops,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sorry, Felicity.”

She just sighed. “Couldn’t you have dumped it on my face instead?” She picked an ice cube off the table and popped it in her mouth.

“Felicity, you’re completely soaked now,” said Oliver. “You should change.” He glared at Roy.

“I’m really sorry,” Roy mumbled. “I slipped.”

Felicity stood up, and the soaked napkins dropped to the floor. The dampness on her dress made the deep purple material look black. “All I have here is my workout clothes. My sweaty workout clothes.”

“But they’re dry,” Oliver said. “Roy, would you?”

“Yeah.” Roy made a show of rooting around for a few moments. “Where’s your stuff, Felicity?” he asked.

“On the shelf by the towels,” she called out, swiping at her dress with wet napkins.

“They’re not here,” Roy called back. “Why don’t you change into something of Oliver’s?”

Felicity sighed noisily. “I’ll just go home. I was going to anyway, when I was finished eating. And I’m  _totally_ finished eating. What was in that enchilada?”

Roy shrugged. “Manny must have misunderstood my order.”

She gulped down more of Oliver’s soda, slurping through the straw. That airy snort signaled that the cup was now empty.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” said Oliver. “We can pick you up another drink on the way.”

Roy busied himself with dropping a towel onto the puddle on the floor while Oliver draped his jacket over Felicity’s shoulders and took her hand to help her step over the mess. Luckily, Roy’s muttered “Yes!” went unnoticed by either of them.

“Milk,” said Felicity. “Isn’t that supposed to help?”

She rattled on about the amount of heat in different kinds of peppers as they went up the stairs. Roy didn’t think either of them realized they were still holding hands, but that was fine. He’d given Oliver a shove in the right direction, and Roy could always make it up to Felicity later. Or Oliver could.


	15. FF #15: Bad Day, Good Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity coughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture this as taking place sometime post-Ray. Because I am all about fast-forwarding to happier times.

**FF #15: Bad Day, Good Night**

One of the best things about working out was that Oliver didn’t have to think. Whether it was the salmon ladder, sparring with Dig and Roy, or whacking a giant tractor tire with a sledgehammer, workouts took all his concentration. There was no room for his worry, anger, fear, or despair.

On a Saturday afternoon, it was one-armed pushups. An almost silent exercise, but even so, it took a while for the extra noise to register on his consciousness. Felicity coughing. Loudly.

He jumped to his feet and brushed his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. Only then did he look at her.  _Really_ look, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to for months. He was drinking her in.

“I know. I look like hell,” she said, getting up from her chair.

Felicity’s blonde ponytail seemed looser than normal, with more wisps escaping it to form a fuzzy golden halo around her face. She was pale. The pearly white polish on her nails was chipped, and the circles under her eyes looked like deep blue thumbprints.

“You’re sick.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the edges of her cardigan closed.

“Why are you even here?” he asked. “You should be at home.”

Felicity waved her hand at the three computer screens. “The searches I’m running to track our little cyber-terrorist have to be closely monitored.”

“You went to work. QC and here. While you were sick.”

“I.T. had a department review, and of course I wouldn’t leave you and Dig and Roy hanging.” She coughed again. “I actually felt a little better this morning, but today was kind of a bad day.”

Oliver drew her in, tucking her into his side. Her arms wrapped around him. He kissed her temple, letting his lips linger for a moment. Her skin was clammy, but he could feel heat radiating from her like a sunburn.

“You have a fever,” he murmured against her forehead.

“And you’re just really into stating the obvious right now.”

It wasn’t a hug anymore. It had become something else, something deeper. Oliver’s head bowed under the weight of everything he couldn’t find the words for, and she tucked herself under his chin. A shiver rippled through her, and he smiled when her arms tightened around him.

“Does this stuff really need to be babysat?” Oliver asked, turning her slightly so she could see the monitors.

“Yes,” she said. “Searching for a hacker’s signature isn’t like searching for Thea, or Helena. Not that I’m comparing your sister to your ex-girlfriend . . . Wow, that’s disturbing on a level I hadn’t thought possible.”

He smiled into her hair, let his lips brush across her forehead. “You need to be in my bed.”

Felicity drew back far enough to look up at him, her eyebrows up, and he sighed.

“You know what I meant,” Oliver said. “If you won’t go home and rest, then you’ll rest here. I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, but—”

“But that didn’t go so well for you last time,” she replied, and he could hear the grin in her voice.

He had tried it once, tossing her over his shoulder. She had been awake for thirty-two hours but wouldn’t leave since they were waiting for crucial intel. So he picked up her up, intending to carry her to her car. But she bit him, and that was the end of that.

Oliver held her at arm’s length and gave her a stern look. “You. Bed. Now.” He turned her in the direction of his bed and nudged her forward.

“I really want to say something sassy to that, but I can’t think of anything,” said Felicity. “My head hurts.” She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her heels. “You’ll wake me if anything changes, right?”

“Of course.”

Felicity curled up on her side. He didn’t miss the way she nuzzled her face into his pillow with a long sigh. Oliver drew the blanket up to her shoulders and pressed another kiss to her temple.

“Good night.”


	16. FF #16: Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity stumbles onto an interesting scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to write about The Fern, okay? Thanks as always to thatmasquedgirl, who offered to read this before I posted it, because WOW, it was a mess before I revised it.

**FF #16: Detour**

Months went by, but still Felicity thought about the kiss almost every day. She went back to Queen Consolidated, decided to be just friends with Barry, flirted a little with Ray Palmer. Yet running beneath every minute of her day, constant but invisible, was her memory of the kiss and of walking away, leaving Oliver with empty hands.

She hated that the heartbreak was more vivid than the happiness. Her fingers often trailed up her hairline to trace the tiny scar there, and when she did, she could almost smell the smoke. In those moments, she shut her eyes tightly and tried to recall the good parts, recall smiling so widely that it hurt.

But it was hard, because most of the time remembering the good was more painful than the bad. It tended to lead to Felicity listening to a lot of Adele and eating unhealthy amounts of ice cream. It led to ridiculous things like the long detour she took every day to avoid the street the Italian restaurant was on, like the way she let her gaze fall anywhere in the Foundry but on the fern.

The fern.

She tried not to see it as some kind of symbol. She tried not to think about it at all, but the table the fern rested on was a hub of activity. They ate their meals there, hashed out plans there. Roy and Dig set their towels and water bottles there when they worked out.

Then Felicity walked down the stairs late on a Sunday night, intending to wrap up a few things before work on Monday. She wore her gold ballet flats with the soft soles, and they were almost soundless on the steps. Oliver was standing at the table, his back to her, and he was  _singing_ .

“ _I want to be where the people are . . .”_

He had a good voice, a clear, warm tenor. She spent enough time around him that hearing him sing eventually would not be out of the realm of possibility. But  _The Little Mermaid_ ? Now  _that_ was surprising.

Felicity didn’t want to interrupt him, but she didn’t think she could sneak back up the stairs without making any noise. And she felt a burning desire to know  _why_ he was singing. Was this a thing? Should she check the security footage for previous musical interludes? Apparently there was more that went on in the Foundry than shirtless workouts and Oliver snoring in the bed she’d bought him at IKEA.

“Oliver?” She was tentative, her voice shaking a little.

He whirled around.

“Are you singing,” she began, looking past him, “to the _fern_?”

“I Googled it,” Oliver said, sounding defensive. He was rapidly turning red. “Music makes houseplants thrive. There have been studies.”

“You Googled something? All by yourself?” Felicity sighed. “My baby is growing up.” She winced. “Not that you’re my baby. I mean, you’re not. And I would never, ever call you that. And if  _you_ called  _me_ ‘baby,’ it’d be the last thing you ever said.” She took a breath. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

He was still blushing, but he had that amused smile she’d often noticed when she was totally embarrassing herself and he was just letting her.

“Talking to it is supposed to help too, but that makes me feel self-conscious,” he said.

That made her grin. “But singing to it doesn’t?”

Oliver shrugged. “Plus, talking’s not my favorite thing. Anyway, it’s nice to have something alive down here. Besides us,” he added.

 “If I’d given you a puppy, would you have sung ‘Part of Your World’ to it?” Felicity asked.

“Something from  _Lady and the Tramp_ would be more appropriate in that case.”

Oliver was making a joke. She still couldn’t get used to it, the way he’d become lighter over the last few weeks. Smiles seemed to come easier to him, and Felicity had started to see more flashes of the sense of humor he’d had before Lian Yu, Hong Kong, and Amanda Waller had squashed it.

“You gave her to me,” Oliver replied. “Of course I’m going to take care of her. There’s no question.”

Felicity’s eyebrows went up. “‘Her’?”

“Obviously she’s a girl.”

“Ferns don’t actually have gender. They reproduce through spores, which are neither male nor female.” Her voice trailed off. He was giving her that smile again. “Not that it matters, anyway.”

“She’s a girl because I just think she is,” he said. “And because I named her after you.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Now I see how talking to it could make you feel self-conscious.” She swallowed. “Felicity is a weird person name, let alone a plant name. But Fernlicity, that’s kind of cute. Not very you, though. I could see you calling it Megan. But you probably don’t even remember that.”

“Of course I remember your middle name,” Oliver replied. “But I picked your  _other_ middle name.”

“Code-breaker?”


	17. FF #17: Impulses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity gets presents. Lots of presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still committed to finishing these. Have some fluff! This one is dedicated to thatmasquedgirl as she navigates the soul-sucking waters of seeking gainful employment.

**FF #17: Impulses**

It was an impulse buy, something that caught his eye when he was picking up a few things at the store. Bright, colorful, pretty. The scarf made him think of her, a rush of warmth that was always accompanied by a pang of sorrow these days.

Oliver had been back for a month. Felicity seemed to have let go of her anger, but things were still strained between them. He’d left her, and she was sure it had been for good this time. Now there was an uneasy civility to their every exchange. Oliver knew he had a long way to go to convince her that he would never leave her again, that he was done holding her at arm’s length, that he was choosing her.

Thea had always told him picking out presents was his superpower. Oliver had a knack for choosing the right gift for the right person, but Felicity had continued to stump him until recently. Now that she’d put herself out of his reach, he was seeing things everywhere that reminded him of her. At first, he’d resisted, but it wasn’t long before he’d amassed a collection of small gifts that was totally taking over his sock drawer. He hadn’t actually given her anything yet, but maybe it was time.

At the loft, Oliver put away the groceries while Thea watched him sleepily, nursing a cup of coffee. The bright purple scarf peeking out of one of the sacks caught her eye.

“Pretty,” she said, fingering the soft fabric. “But I don’t think she’s the type who can be bought.”

“Who?”

Thea rolled her eyes. “How dumb do you think I am? I see the way you look at Felicity. Hell,  _everyone_ sees it, including her. But you died—a scarf’s not going to cut it.”

“It’s a start,” he said. “It’s something.”

The scarf went into the sock drawer. Oliver began a new habit of putting a gift in his pocket every time he got dressed. He never said anything, could never find the right words. He’d just press something into her hand or, more often than not, leave something on her chair in the Foundry. A fuzzy koala keychain, a bright pink polished rock, one of those souvenir pennies rolled flat and embossed with the Starling City skyline.

In the beginning, Felicity would frown in confusion. “What’s this for?” she’d ask. Oliver would shrug. Once in a while, he’d say, “It made me think of you” or “I thought you’d like it.” After a couple of months, she started skipping into the Foundry every evening. Her blue eyes would light up as she spun her chair around, eager to see if Oliver might have left anything for her. He guessed it was fitting that the purple scarf was the tipping point.

“Oliver, why are you doing this?”

She asked it without looking up, focusing her attention instead on looping the scarf around her neck. She’d actually hugged him when she saw it, and he almost broke down right there. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d hugged him.

“It made me think of you,” he said with a shrug.

“You always say that.”

Oliver thought for a while before he spoke again. “I had a drawer full of this stuff, little gifts for you. It was pretty clear that my words weren’t enough, so I thought I’d try something else.”

“Oh.”

Felicity kept fiddling with the scarf, unwilling or unable to look at him. Maybe that was a good thing. He was getting worse at keeping everything below the surface—he was pretty sure his love for her just streamed from every pore like sunlight.

“Your words weren’t enough for what?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She finally met his eyes, and the naked hope he saw reflected there staggered him. Was that all she’d needed? Time and space . . . and presents?

Oliver drew her hand down from the scarf, gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “My words weren’t enough to convince you that you’re not a woman I love. You’re  _the_ woman I love.”

“I feel guilty. I should give  _you_ something,” she said at one point a few weeks later.

“That’s not the point,” he said with a smile. “I’m not asking you for anything in return.”

Her response was so low and mumbly that he wasn’t sure she’d actually spoken, though he couldn’t get the words out of his head: “Maybe you should.”

Then came a night when he took a bullet high in the chest and nearly died. His heart stopped twice as Dig and Felicity tried to slow the bleeding. When he woke up two days later, he saw in Felicity’s eyes the answer he’d been waiting for. He’d almost waited too long, and he wasn’t going to let a bullet take that away. Two days after that, he left another gift on her chair. A ring.


	18. FF #18: Free Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity is unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty angsty, but the next entry is a sequel, and that will set things right. You know me. I bring the fluff to this party.

**FF #18: Free Fall**

 

His heart was in freefall. Oliver gunned the motorcycle’s engine in frustration. He was stuck at a red light, desperate to get to the hospital but also desperate to arrive in one piece. Diggle had flat out refused to give him any details over the phone. All he learned was that he was no longer Felicity’s emergency contact. It didn’t surprise him, but it hurt just the same.

But there wasn’t time to dwell on things he couldn’t change. Dig had made it clear he should hurry.

The waiting area outside the emergency room was crowded. Barry’s whole team was there, along with Iris and Detective West. Dr. Wells was talking to Palmer, who didn’t seem to be listening. Palmer had blood on his shirt and hands. Oliver charged forward, but a large arm hit his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t, man,” said Diggle.

“Where is she?” he asked, trying to keep his voice down but sounding Arrow-y instead.

“They rushed her straight back. Trauma One.”

_Trauma_ . His knees buckled, and he had to grab onto Dig’s arm to stay upright.

“Where?”

“You can’t go back there, Oliver,” said Barry. “No one can.” He stepped around Cisco and approached Oliver carefully, palms up, as if dealing with a cornered animal. Barry’s hands were bloody too.

Everyone had so much sympathy in their faces. They looked like sad puppies, and he couldn’t take it.

Caitlin reached out to him, then thought better of it and drew her hand back. “When they stabilize her, someone will come out with an update, and then they’ll allow visitors.”

Her lip was trembling, and Oliver couldn’t stand it, couldn’t breathe or even think. He pushed past her, marched through the triage room, and slapped open the doors everyone said were closed to him.

Blood. There was so much blood, and this time it was all hers. All the shouting faded into the background as he took in her pale face, her closed eyes. Her glasses were gone. Her blonde ponytail was a wreck. He hardly noticed that she was naked on the gurney, her bright pink dress in pieces nearby. Oliver wondered what would upset her more: the destruction of the dress, a favorite, or being naked in a room full of strangers.

 A hand fell on his arm. It was easier to shake off than Diggle’s.

“Sir, you can’t be in here.”

He ignored the woman, intent on Felicity. So much blood. Where was it all coming from?

“You have to leave. I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Oliver, staring at her dirt- and blood-streaked face. “I promised her. I promised I wouldn’t leave again.”

“You don’t have to leave  _her_ . Just the room.”

He turned to look at the woman wearing a paper smock over her blue scrubs. The smock had a smear of blood right over her heart. For some reason, that was Oliver’s undoing.

His legs gave out for real this time. He sagged against the nurse, but she couldn’t take his weight and they both went down. Voices drifted toward him as he blinked futilely at a veil of tears.

“Hang another unit of O neg. And call down to the blood bank.”

“BP’s dropping.”

“Shit, shit, shit. Get this bleeding under control!”

A bevy of alarms sounded. “She’s in V-fib!” someone shouted. The nurse tried to drag Oliver toward the door, but his legs were tangled with hers. Then a long, high tone sounded. It felt like his heart stopped when Felicity’s did. As the activity increased and the defibrillator came out, he thought,  _This is how I die._

And it gave him a sense of relief. Not total despair, as when he lay in the dirt, helpless, as his mother sacrificed herself. Not horror, but relief that he wouldn’t live to see the images in his head become reality. Her empty chair, an empty cradle, his bare left ring finger. Relief that he would never know a world without her in it.


	19. FF #19: That Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? It's all good. Bringing the fluff back.

**FF #19: That Night**

 

Dimly, Oliver registered that his knee hurt. He stretched his legs, opened his eyes. Remembered where he was.

How had he fallen asleep? The chair was so small and unyielding, the back too short to provide much support. He lifted his gaze, looking for any kind of sign, but nothing had changed. Felicity lay still and pale in the ICU bed.

They shouldn’t have let him stay long enough to fall asleep, but someone must have taken pity on him. Oliver tightened his constant grip on her hand for a moment, hoping she’d squeeze back.

He should leave. He needed to call Dig. He needed coffee, and he really needed to pee, but something kept him in that little chair. He was absently rubbing his knee when her fingers fluttered in his.

Oliver jumped out of the chair. Felicity gagged around the tube down her throat. Her eyes were open, and her gaze darted around the room. He tried to make comforting, shushing noises, but no sound would come out. She grabbed at the tube, but he caught her other hand in his.

“Felicity.” His voice cracked on her name. He wished he could take it back and polish it.

Finally,  _finally_ , she squeezed his hand. She gagged again and shook her head. One of the monitors beeped wildly.

“Don’t try to talk yet.” Still holding both her hands, he hit the call button with his pinky. He meant to tell the nurse that Felicity was awake and needed the tube taken out, but his voice failed him completely on the second syllable of “awake.”

In the flurry of activity, Oliver managed to stay right next to the bed without once letting go of Felicity’s hand. The breathing tube was removed, her reflexes checked, a follow-up CT scan scheduled. It seemed like ages before the room emptied.

“You look like hell.” Her voice was dry and hoarse. They were the first words he’d heard her speak in over 48 hours. “So do I, probably.”

“You’re beautiful,” Oliver said.

She choked on a laugh, and he held out a cup of water. She had to chase after the straw because he wouldn’t let go of her hand long enough to help her drink.

“How long?” she asked, letting go of the straw and laying back on her pillow.

“Almost two days.”

“No, how long have you been here?”

“Almost two days,” he said again. “I leave the room occasionally, but not until someone makes me.”

“You haven’t punched anyone, have you?” she asked, her tone full of worry. She raised their joined hands, turning them over to examine his knuckles. Sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds glinted off the diamond ring on her left hand. Her fingers released in surprise, but he held on. “Uh, did I miss something?”

Oliver felt a sheepish smile curve his lips. “They weren’t going to let anyone in to see you until your mom got here. We had to think fast.”

“‘We’?”

“Everyone. The waiting room was packed. But it was mostly Caitlin’s idea. It’s her ring.”

“And they bought it?” Felicity wondered. “You’re not a very good liar.”

“No, you just see through it like no one else,” he replied. “There wasn’t much lying involved anyway. It’s just a technicality.”

That made her speechless, and he enjoyed the sight. She just stared at the modest ring, her mouth opening and closing.

“Dig explained it to your mom,” Oliver continued. “So hopefully she won’t ambush you when she arrives.”

“Why isn’t she already here? Vegas isn’t that far away.”

“A bunch of flights were canceled because of weather. She had to spend the night in the airport.”

“Oh, she’s going to be a wreck,” said Felicity. “How much does she know about what happened?”

“She knows you were hurt badly. She thinks you were hit by a car. Nothing was said about your hobby of aiding and abetting masked vigilantes.”

“Good.” She shifted to the side. “I’m so not ready for  _that_ conversation. Explaining about breaking up with Ray will be a cake walk compared to that. Where  _is_ Ray?”

“He left,” said Oliver. “I think everyone left, once we realized only family could visit.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I kind of wish he’d hung around long enough for you to punch him.”

Oliver smiled. “I’d have liked to, but getting to you was more important.”

She shifted again, wincing. She really was beautiful. The bruises that bloomed on her pale skin just made her eyes stand out more.

“Oliver, you can’t put someone else’s ring on my finger and expect it to change everything. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

He had to let go of her hand so he could adjust the pillows and help her get comfortable. As soon as he could, he took her hand again, interlacing their fingers. It was easier to look at her hand than her face.

“That night you were brought in, your heart stopped. I got a good look at what life would be like without you, and Felicity, I don’t want any part of it.” This time when he said her name, his voice was steady, and he met her eyes. “I know I have a long way to go, but I’m heading in the right direction.”

Felicity sighed. Her eyelids started drooping. “Being here when I woke up was a good first step. You could have been off shooting arrows into the culprit.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” said Oliver, looking down again. “Believe me, I want to put arrows in everyone who had anything to do with what happened to you. But my place is here.”

She reached up with their joined hands to cup his face, and he leaned into her touch.

“Yes,” she said, “it is.”


	20. FF #20: Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity overhears game time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried really hard to do this prompt without doing a game of Truth or Dare, but it just didn't work. I also tried really hard to write this fluffy, but it didn't turn out that way. I promise to write more fluff soon to make up for it!

**FF #20: Truth or Dare (post 3.05)**

 

She should have gone straight back to the office after dropping off her mom at the airport. Even going home would have made more sense, to clean up the mess left by Cooper’s goons. Leave it to her to have an ex who actually had his own group of thugs.

But when Felicity found herself parked in the alley behind Verdant, she decided she might as well go in. Just to check on things.

“There are rules, man,” she could hear Dig say. “You can’t pick Dare every time.”

“I don’t give a shit about the rules,” Oliver growled, sounding dangerously Arrow-like.

And she stopped at the top of the stairs, with the door open a smidge, just to get her bearings for a minute. Not to eavesdrop. Really.

The clink of glass on glass told her they were sharing a drink. Probably Oliver’s fancy-shmancy Russian vodka.

“Then take a shot, because I can’t think of any more crap you don’t already do to punish yourself, like using a damn sledgehammer to beat on a tractor tire.”

“Fine.” More glass clinking. “Your turn.”

“Truth.”

“If I can’t pick Dare every time, you can’t pick Truth every time,” said Oliver, sounding pouty.

“I’m not afraid to be honest,” Diggle shot back.

“You don’t have five years’ worth of shameful dark secrets.”

Moving so slowly that she felt like she was underwater in slow-motion, Felicity set down her bag at her feet and then carefully sank onto the top stair.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Another clink. If Oliver had been avoiding Truth for a while, and if he kept it up much longer, Felicity figured he was well on his way to being blind-drunk.

“Dare,” said Diggle.

“I dare you to stop asking me about Felicity.”

“Pass the bottle.”

Felicity was glad she was sitting down. She covered her mouth with her hand, just in case her brain thought of something to say to give her away.

“One more round, Oliver. You’re piss-drunk anyway. You might as well just answer one question.”

“Will it shut you up?” Oliver asked.

“For tonight, yeah.”

“Then I guess it’s worth it. Truth.”

Felicity wished she could telepathically tell Dig what to ask, but she had so many questions for Oliver that she wouldn’t know where to start.

“He better make it a good one,” she mumbled.

“Did you mean it?” asked Dig. “When you gave her the dart for Slade in your house last summer. Did you mean what you said?”

Silence. Felicity forgot how to breathe.

“Because I think you did, but I want to hear it from you, and I want to know why you keep telling her and then walking away.”

“I’m not sure, but that sounds like two different things. One round, one question.”

“Damn, Oliver. After everything we’ve been through, would it kill you to be honest with me just this once?”

“Why can’t you let it go?” Oliver was almost shouting now. “Why are you so interested, and just how is it any of your business anyway?”

It was quiet for a long time. No bottle clinking on glass, no pacing, nothing.

“The two of you  _are_ my business, Oliver. You’re both like family to me, and I can tell you’re both miserable. It’s twenty kinds of stupid.”

“I didn’t plan on saying it . . . It’s hard not to just say everything I feel when I’m looking at her. It just came out.”

“Did you mean it?” asked Diggle. “Do you love her?”

“You know I do.” His voice was thick with either booze or emotion. She couldn’t tell which.

She needed to move. She really needed to move, to get up and make her presence known so they would stop talking. She couldn’t take this. He’d already said it once tonight—sort of.  _You know how I feel_ was pretty telling. She had to stop him. It didn’t matter how many times he said he loved her. It wasn’t true, not really. Not when he kept saying it and then walking away from her.

“How long?”

Felicity was getting to her feet, but she froze in place.

“A while.”

“And you’re not with her because . . .”

“Because of those five years of secrets. Because anyone who’s close to me is in danger. Because we went on a date and she almost died. Because—”

Felicity couldn’t listen any longer. She slipped her purse back onto her shoulder and crept back out the door, not bothering to close it carefully behind her.


	21. FF #21: Three Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity warms up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up shortly after #19 left off, because I wasn't done fixing the angst with fluff, apparently. Shmoopy!Oliver is a personal favorite of mine. :D

**FF #21: Three Reasons**

 

Felicity had been in the hospital for nine days. Nine long, incredibly boring days. The only bright spot, besides the abundance of flowers in her room, was the man currently pressed against her side, lightly snoring.

Oliver had insisted on staying with her. He was basically living in her hospital room, but they’d only started sharing her bed the day before. There was a small couch under the window, but it was about two feet too short for him to stretch out on. She’d noticed he was looking more and more haggard, and she was finally able to get him to admit that he hadn’t been sleeping much.

They had a spirited argument. She may or may not have called Oliver a big dumb pine tree. (She’d never tell—there were no witnesses.) Finally he gave in. It was a tight fit, but if he lay on his side facing her, it worked. She felt self-conscious at first because he just lay there staring at her with his head propped up on his arm. But all the sleepless nights finally caught up with him, and now she was enjoying having him so close.

Being careful not to disturb him, Felicity reached toward the bedside table for her phone. Her left arm was trapped under Oliver’s, so she used one hand to enter the unlock code and open the Google search app.

“Mmmm, what’re you doing?” he murmured, eyes still closed. His arm tightened around her, and she almost dropped her phone.

“Nothing,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

Oliver pushed up on one elbow. “Felicity, what are you doing? Are you on WebMD again?” He snatched the phone and checked the screen. “‘Reasons why I am so cold all the time’? You think the internet will have the answer?”

Felicity shrugged. “All I get here is a verbal pat on the head and another blanket. I have three blankets now, and they won’t give me any more.” She made a grab for her phone but Oliver held it out of her reach.

“Of all the things you could Google, that has to be the least interesting—”

“Maybe not interesting, but informative, if you’d just let me look at the results.” Felicity made another grab, but it was half-hearted. Reaching so far pulled at her stitches.

“We’ll come back to the cold thing in a minute,” said Oliver. “I’m sure I can turn up something much more . . .” He tapped on the screen with his thumbs. “‘Reasons why Felicity Smoak is adorable.’”

She gave him the side-eye.

“I’d tell you how many results it turned up, but the number is embarrassingly high,” he said with a wink.

Ugh, the wink. It was ridiculously sexy, so of course her mouth put a stop to that.

“I’m not adorable—I’m gross,” Felicity said in a rush. “I really needed to shave my legs  _before_ all this happened. Can you imagine how hairy they are now? Maybe not Sasquatch hairy, but pretty close. And do you know how many days it’s been since I washed my hair?”

“No,” he replied, his head cocked to one side like a confused puppy.

“Neither do I, Oliver. Neither do I.”

He stared at her for a moment, then turned his attention back to her phone. “‘Reasons why Felicity Smoak smells—’”

She couldn’t reach the phone, but she could reach him. She smacked his chest. And it was totally not her fault that her hand might have lingered on the muscle a little longer than necessary.  _Totally_ not her fault.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He was grinning, but his blue eyes still looked sleepy. “You might feel less than fresh, but you look amazing.”

“Search for reasons why Oliver Queen is a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying about that.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and brushed his lips over her temple.

The moment was quickly turning precious. She had to do something. They hadn’t even talked about it yet, the change in the dynamic of their relationship. She’d been trying to keep Oliver at a distance until they figured it out, but it was hard, considering the fact that he barely left her side.

“I thought we were going to revisit this cold situation,” Felicity said as Oliver slipped her phone into his back pocket.

“Do you really have three blankets?” He pulled at the covers drawn up to her chest, but she slapped his hand away. “Three for you and none for me?”

“You don’t need any blankets. You’re like a—a furnace.” Her voice faltered as he closed the small gap between them and drew her into his arms. Her head tucked under his chin, and a stray thought flew through her mind:  _We fit._


	22. FF #22: Silver Bells and Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a wardrobe malfunction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture this as taking place sometime during season 2. This and the next chapter are gifts for dettiot, who so graciously prompted me when I was in a horrible mood and just wanted to get lost in some fic-writing. Her prompts were undercover dating, dressed to the nines, and the line "Your bowtie is a disgrace--here, let me." Though I probably didn't go in the direction she expected with that line. On purpose. :P

**FF #22: Silver Bells and Bullets**

 

“Your bowtie is a disgrace. Here, let me.”

Felicity rolled her eyes, then tilted her head back to allow Oliver to fuss with her tie.

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me wear a clip-on,” she reminded him.

“Anyone paying the least bit of attention could spot a clip-on a mile off.”

He was close. Really, really close. She smelled his coffee breath and spicy aftershave. He was frowning hard in concentration.

“This is a terrible idea,” Felicity said.

Oliver finished with the bowtie and put his hands on her shoulders, dipping his head to look her square in the eye.

“The catering uniform is just to get you in and out of the back door,” he said.

“I don’t mean the uniform. Anyone could buy me as glorified waitress. It’s practically in my genes. But no one’s going to buy me as your plus-one, even with this.”

She lifted up the snug black skirt that made up the bottom half of her catering uniform. Oliver’s eyebrows went way up. It took Felicity a moment to realize she’d also pulled up the cocktail dress she wore beneath the uniform. She let the skirt drop.

“Oh my God, I did  _not_ just flash you on purpose, I swear! I meant to show you my dress. And even that sounds dirty. ‘Show you my dress.’” She emphasized it with finger quotes as her mouth kept on going. “It’s probably a euphemism for something, and I totally didn’t—”

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Felicity had noticed it was becoming his favorite place to touch her, friendly but not too friendly, not skin to skin. She’d been meaning to tease him about it, but now didn’t seem like the best time.

“Felicity.”

Oliver could make just her name sound like a complete sentence. It was his superpower.

“You’ll do just fine,” he continued. “You pulled off the thing in the casino. You lured out the Dollmaker. You can do this. It’s only a Christmas party.”

“‘Only a Christmas party’?” she muttered. “Only an event so exclusive that not even I could hack anything to get my name on the invite list.”

They separated then, Oliver heading for the front door, where a phalanx of security personnel was scrutinizing invitations. Felicity went around the back, her face still flaming.

“You know I’m not going to let you live this down, right?” Diggle’s voice spoke into her earpiece.

“You  _heard_ that?” She let loose a string of curses that had Oliver’s voice chuckling in her ear. “Look, can we just start over?”

“Absolutely not. Let’s go.”

Felicity waited for some of the actual catering staff to take a smoke break. When the two waiters stubbed out their cigarettes and returned to the house, she fell into step behind them.

The kitchen was massive, loud and hot. She grabbed a tray of hors d’oeuvres and followed a waitress down the hall. Glancing at every open door, she spotted a bathroom, pirouetted away from other girl, and ducked inside.

“I’m in,” she whispered. “Not in-in, just in the bathroom. To change. Which I will be doing now.”

“Got it,” Diggle replied.

Felicity set the tray on the closed toilet seat and then unzipped her skirt. Leaving it hanging on her hips, she unbuttoned her white top and pulled at the bowtie. It wouldn’t loosen. She left it for a moment while she shimmied out of her skirt and hid it in the cabinet under the sink.

The top button of her shirt was hidden under the bowtie—she couldn’t unfasten it.

“Oliver, what did you do? Every time I pull on this thing, it just tightens.”

“There’s a trick to it,” Oliver said over comms. “Do I need to come rescue you?”

“Yes, please. I don’t want anyone else to find me like this.”

Felicity pulled the band from her ponytail and shook out her hair. She’d worn heels with the catering uniform, hoping no one would notice, and now she smoothed out her red cocktail dress. It was kind of on the slinky side because she figured the material would be less likely to wrinkle, crushed under her other clothes.

“This room is decorated for Christmas, Dig,” she reported.

“Because it’s Christmas, and it’s a party,” came his response.

“It’s a  _bathroom_ . And there’s a Christmas tree in the corner. With lights. And it’s theme-decorated.”

“What’s the theme?” Diggle asked. “‘Welcome to our Christmas potty’?”

“Very funny,” said Felicity. “Actually, I think it’s . . .” She peered at the tiny ornaments. “It’s spaceships. All the ornaments are spaceships. Well, that’s cool. Someone around here must have some taste.” But then her gaze fell on the toilet seat cover made of tinsel. “Or not.”

Over the comms, she directed Oliver to the bathroom she was in. At his soft knock, she flung open the door and yanked him inside. He managed to hang onto the knob long enough to pull the door closed behind them.

Oliver was just staring at her. She took a quick peek at the mirror—she did look absolutely ridiculous. Black heels that were too bland for her silky red dress, wild hair, and a white shirt still hanging on her shoulders, held in place by the offending bowtie.

“Come on, help me with this thing,” Felicity urged him.

He grinned at her, and she almost fell over. She had to lean against the sink to keep her balance. Where had he been hiding  _that_ all this time? It made his whole face—hell, the entire bathroom—light up.

Oliver reached for the bowtie, his fingertips brushing against her neck, and damn, if  _that_ didn’t light the whole bathroom on fire. He grasped at the tie with two fingers and gave it a slight tug. It came loose in one piece, which he placed in her hand with a triumphant, toe-curling smile.

“I hate you right now.” She shrugged out of the shirt and chucked it and the bowtie into the cabinet with her skirt. As she straightened up, though, she caught sight of her reflection again. “Oh, my hair!”

“It’s—” He cleared his throat. “It looks fine, Felicity. Let’s go.”

 


	23. FF#23: Mission Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has some interesting reactions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2, continued from the last chapter, also a gift for dettiot, who is the BOMB. :P

**FF #23: Mission: Mistletoe**

“Let’s go.”

Felicity took Oliver’s arm and stepped out of the bathroom with all the dignity she could muster. She was from the “fake it till you make it” school of thought, and it had served pretty well so far in her life.

But it wasn’t working tonight.

“This is a terrible idea,” she said to Oliver. “Did I mention that?”

“More than once,” Diggle’s voice spoke in her ear.

“Multiple times,” Oliver said. “And it was  _your_ idea, remember?”

She punched his arm. “Sneaking in as a member of the catering staff was my idea. Sneaking around the house as your date was not.”

“Stop worrying so much.”

He lowered his arm, his hand sliding down her wrist to tangle their fingers together. His touch left an invisible fiery trail on her skin. How the hell was she supposed to keep from worrying about that?

“I should have worn long sleeves,” she muttered, unable to repress a shiver.

“Are you cold?” Oliver asked. “It’ll be warmer in the ballroom.”

“Cold is not the problem.”

He looked at her strangely, and her mouth closed with a snap.

_Shut up, shut up_ , she told herself.

She concentrated on her feet, one step after another. She wished she could have worn a different pair of heels. This black pair was cute, but they just weren’t right for her dress. She would have preferred something strappy and silver.

“Oh, you’re back!”

Someone barreled into Felicity, nearly knocking her down. Only Oliver’s grip—when had his hand moved to her waist?—kept her upright. A woman somewhere around her mother’s age bounced off her, somehow keeping her wine from spilling.

“Oh my God, sorry! I’m a little tipsy.” The woman giggled. “Oliver Queen! I’d ask where you’ve been hiding, but your cute little date here has bedroom hair.”

Felicity reached up to pat her unruly curls.

“Felicity, this is Mrs. Bowen, a friend of my mother’s,” Oliver said.

“Friend? Please. The Bowens and the Queens are practically family.” The woman squeezed Oliver’s bicep and her lips circled into an “o.”

_Right there with you, lady,_ Felicity thought.

They shook hands. Mrs. Bowen’s was cold and shaky. It seemed awfully early for her to be three sheets to the wind.

Oliver steered her around Mrs. Bowen and down the hall. He moved his arm up to encircle her shoulders and pull her into his side. He still must have thought she was cold. Felicity didn’t see any harm in letting him continue thinking that. Because he  _was_ warm. And he smelled really good.

“Do I really have bedroom hair?” she asked him. “Because I can go brush it. I don’t have a brush on me because I don’t have  _anything_ on me. But clothes. I have clothes on me. All the clothes I’m supposed to, including under—3, 2, 1.” She shook her head. “Right. Where was I? Oh, how’s my hair?”

He didn’t turn the full power of his smile on her again, thank God. Just a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Your hair is fine, I promise,” Oliver said.

They entered the ballroom. Oliver was right—it was warm. Overly warm and crowded. Wait staff weaved expertly around the room, delivering drinks and hawking hors d’oeuvres. Felicity snagged a mini crab cake while Oliver grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing tray. She shoved the crab cake in her mouth and chased it with a gulp of champagne.

“Okay, that was a bad idea,” she said after hastily chewing and swallowing. “Those two things do not go well together.” Her words were punctuated with a closed-mouth burp.

The room, like the rest of the house, was beautifully decorated. Christmas trees covered in white lights were everywhere—Felicity lost count after twelve. Garland festooned with bright red holly berries draped across tables, and a string quartet off to one side was playing Christmas carols. And it was hazy.

“Is there a fog machine in here? And why are my lips numb?”

The ballroom tilted sharply, and Felicity put her hand out. Strong fingers wrapped around hers.

“Felicity?”

“Oh, there must have been nuts in that crab cake.” That’s what she tried to say, anyway, but it came out garbled as her throat began to close up.

“Nuts?” Oliver asked.

She managed to nod. His eyes were full of concern, and so, so blue. She stared at them until her vision tunneled.

“Hold on to me tight,” he said.

Felicity snorted, or tried to, and then gasped when a sharp pain stabbed into her thigh through the thin material of her dress. She vaguely registered Oliver telling her to breathe, but his voice sounded muffled and far away.

When her breathing returned to normal, she realized she was sitting at a table with Oliver kneeling at her feet. His tux jacket was draped over her shoulders. He plucked the Bluetooth from her ear and removed his own earpiece, dropping them in his pocket.

“The ambulance is on its way,” he said.

“I totally blew the mission.” Her words slurred a little bit. Her tongue still felt thick.

“No. I mean, yes, technically you did.” Oliver smiled, tilting his head. “Dig and I will just come back later and break in to get those files. The important thing is that you’re okay.”

“It’s not the first time I screwed everything up because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,” said Felicity. “Where’d you get an Epi-Pen?”

He shrugged, looking down. “I always carry one. Just in case.”

Was he  _blushing_ ? She reached out to check, to touch his face, but her hands and limbs were rubbery. She kind of slapped at him instead, and missed by a mile.

“At least I got us out of this ridiculous sham,” she said. “That old lady—Mrs. Bowen—she knew I wasn’t really your date. That dig about my bedroom hair—”

“She knows my old reputation. That was a dig at me, not you.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth.

Wait, what warmth?

Felicity opened her eyes. Oliver’s large hands covered her knees. Her  _bare_ knees.

“Wow, your hands are really big. And warm. And now would be a really good time for the ambulance to show up, before I can say or do anything to make this worse.”

He squeezed her knees. “You flashed me, Felicity. I’m just not sure if you can top that.” God, that grin. It was like dark and gloomy clouds parting to reveal the brilliant sun. “But if you’re determined to try, I won’t stop you.”


	24. FF #24: So . . . he's not the pizza guy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity is an adorable party-pooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH. This did not come out the way I intended. Originally there was no booze, and Laurel was there. But. She is wicked hard to get a handle on because what we get on the show is so wildly inconsistent. So I cut her, not because I'm anti-Laurel, but because I didn't have the patience to try to figure her out for a short scene that's supposed to be Olicity-focused anyway. These are supposed to be easy, but working on my novel today will be a breeze after this. :P

**FF #24: “So . . . he’s not the pizza guy?”**

Lyla looked at the morose woman sitting on her couch. Felicity looked like someone had just destroyed one of her computers.

“This is the saddest bachelorette party ever,” she said. “Johnny has the baby out for the whole evening, and I’m not going to spend it staring at your sorry face, so buck up.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “I am unable to manufacture a more cheerful facial expression without alcohol.”

“Thea should be here soon.”

“Ah, the bringer of booze.” Felicity let her head rest on the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.

“How that girl ended up running a club, I’ll never understand. Is she even old enough to drink?” Lyla asked.

“Not quite. But it’s totally okay for her to drink in a private home with adult supervision.” She winced. “Don’t tell her I implied she wasn’t an adult.”

There was a knock at the door. Lyla went to answer it.

“I come bearing alcohol,” said Thea, holding up a shopping bag, the bottles inside it clinking.

“Thank God,” said Lyla. “Felicity’s going to be no fun at all unless we get her liquored up.”

“Awww, is she moping? That’s so cute. So’s my stupid big brother.”

“Stupid is right. It’s killing my buzz, and I haven’t even started drinking yet.” Lyla reached for the bag. “Come on. I have an idea.” She pulled Thea into the living room.

“Booze is here!” Thea declared.

Felicity waved her hand around. “Yay, booze.” She sounded terribly unenthusiastic.

Lyla dug into the shopping bag and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “I don’t have to ask if this is the good stuff, because I know your last name.”

“Which one?” Thea said, her tone laced with bitterness.

“Queen, of course,” Felicity replied. “Robert Queen raised you. He was your dad.”

“Don’t tell him I said it, but Oliver’s right.” Thea took the bottle wine of from Lyla. “You always know just what to say to make people feel better.”

Felicity blushed, as she often did when her relationship to Oliver came up in conversation.

“Lead me to the wineglasses, woman,” Thea said to Lyla. “We’re not desperate enough yet to drink straight from the bottle.”

“But give us time,” Felicity added.

No one ended up drinking straight from the bottle. After sharing two bottles of wine and a  _Say Yes to the Dress_ marathon, Thea was throwing her arms around everyone and grinning sleepily. Lyla had a nice buzz going. And Felicity was flat-out drunk, confessing to all sorts of things.

“And then he just . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “But I unplugged the laptop before anything else happened. I’m sure there are couple of people out there who had their student loans myst—myster—suddenly erased, though.”

“Homegirl needs a cab, or she’s gonna tell us  _all_ her secrets,” Thea slurred.

“That’s the idea,” Lyla murmured, pulling out her phone.

“I need pizzaaaaa.” Felicity was wearing Lyla’s mother’s wedding veil, that Lyla had decided didn’t really go with her dress. Felicity batted the tulle away from her face, only to have it fall back into place. “Pizza will sober me up, and then I can go hooooome. Big day tomorrow. I have to get all pretty and then go to your wedding with big dumb Ray Palmer on my arm instead of Oliverrrr.”

Thea sat up. “Ooo, secrets! Tell me, Felicity, do you love Ollie? Like, do you  _love_ him?”

“I didn’t think that was a secret.”

While Thea tried to get Felicity to explain, coherently, why she and Oliver weren’t together, Lyla slipped into the kitchen to send a quick text message.

_F needs a ride home. She’s in a very honest state, so maybe it’s time to clear the air, huh?_

She sent the text and then popped back into the living room to find Felicity in tears, wrapped in a Thea hug.

“You weren’t supposed to make her cry,” Lyla said, glaring at Thea.

“She didn’t,” Felicity mumbled. “I’m very good at doing that all by myself. I cry myself to sleep about every other night.”

“You do?” asked Thea, pulling back to stare at her, astonished. Lyla was gaping too.

“Well, yeah. You know—” She batted at the veil hanging in her eyes. “I mean, I love him, and I know he loves me because, God, he tells me often enough. Like,  _all_ the  _time_ . But we’re not together, and I’m not even completely sure why anymore. So I’m kind of miserable. I didn’t think that was a secret, either.” Felicity glanced up at Lyla. “Is that pizza on the way? I’m more than ready to sober up now.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Perfect timing,” said Lyla. Though inwardly she was suspicious. For Oliver to have shown up so soon after getting her text, he had to have been in the area.

She flung open the door. “Hey, creeper.”

Oliver stood there looking like a shy toddler or a nervous puppy, hands shoved in his pockets, ducking his head. But his lips twitched upward.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.

“Right.” Lyla stepped back to let him into the apartment. “Your one true love isn’t really safe to drive right now.”

Felicity came around the corner, doing a fist-pump. “Pizzaaaaa!” Then she spotted Oliver. Frowned.

“Hey,” Oliver said. His voice was low, almost a whisper. Lyla thought that must be what Johnny had referred to once as the “Felicity voice.”

“Hey.”

For a moment, they were the only two people in the room. Really. Lyla could have stripped naked and stood on her head, and neither of them would have noticed. It was criminal that they weren’t together. Lyla was happy to give them this shove. And maybe more than one, if necessary. She’d already rigged the bouquet toss to favor Felicity instead of her bitchy cousin Rachel.

Then the moment passed. Felicity turned to Lyla, looking confused.

“So . . . he’s not the pizza guy?”

Oliver smiled, and Lyla’s jaw dropped. It was like the sun coming out after days and days of gloom. And of course Felicity would be the one to pull it out of him.

“I kind of lied,” Lyla admitted. “Oliver’s going to drive you home. But I can still order a pizza and have it sent to your place.”

“ _Yes._ Pizza.” She didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic as before, but she was clearly distracted, unable to tear her gaze away from Oliver’s. “Pizza would be . . . nice.”

“Ready to go?” Oliver asked her.

She stumbled toward him, and he caught her elbow. “Oh.” She pulled off the veil, wrecking her hair, and handed it to Lyla. “Sorry I ruined your party with my mopey face. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Even when I’m drunk, I’m mopey.”

Lyla caught sight of the adoring look on Oliver’s face. “You didn’t ruin anything, Felicity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should give a shout-out to Sixteen Candles for this, because it has a great scene with a bride on muscle relaxants batting her veil out of her face. :P


	25. FF #25: A Case of Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity meets one of Dig's neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic in months, and I'm rusty as hell. Which explains why this ends so abruptly. Honestly, I don't know where the heck this came from, but I'm happy to be back writing Olicity fic again!

**FF #25: A Case of Mistaken Identity**

 

It’s not the first time Felicity’s been mistaken for somebody else. It’s happened often enough that _I guess I just have one of those faces_ is a familiar refrain. It’s happened often enough around Oliver that he’s commented on it, confusion pulling his features into an adorable frown. “I don’t understand. There _isn’t_ anyone like you.”

But it  _is_ the first time she’s been mistaken for Lyla.

Her heel gets caught in a crack in the sidewalk, and Dig grabs her elbow as she pitches forward. He hauls her upright one-handed because he’s balancing little Sara on his other arm.

A short, chubby kid with a gap-toothed grin whistles appreciatively from his perch on the stoop outside Dig’s building.

“Damn, son,” the kid says to Dig. “That your baby mama?”

Felicity’s eyes widen so much, they start to ache. “Oh, no, no, no. I’m not—we’re not—”

“We’re very much not a thing, Shorty,” Dig says to the kid. “You’ve met Lyla before. You know, my wife.”

Felicity leans into Dig and whispers, “It’s kind of rude to call him ‘Shorty,’ considering the—” She waves her hand around. Sara tracks the wild movement with her eyes and giggles. “—the height thing. Or lack of it.”

The kid crosses his arms and leans back like a thug in training. “It’s my name, bi—”

“ _Shorty._ ”

Dig’s tone silences all of them. No one moves. Felicity swears she can hear crickets chirping even though it’s hours till sunset.

He could say more. He could explain why the term Shorty was about to use is so offensive. He could admonish Shorty for being rude. He could even force the kid to apologize. But he doesn’t. Somehow he’s conveyed all of that—and more—in the way he said the kid’s name.

“What kind of terrible person names their short kid Shorty?” Felicity blurts out.

“My mama . . .” Shorty hesitates, glancing at Dig. “My mama, ma’am.”

“You had to ask,” Dig mutters.

“My mama,” says Shorty. “My mama so dumb, she got hit by a parked car. My mama so fat, even Dora couldn’t explore her.”

Felicity doesn’t know the protocol for “yo mama” jokes. Is it okay to laugh, or would that be insulting Shorty’s mother? Or is she insulting Shorty if she doesn’t laugh?

Shorty follows them into the building, spouting more jokes that he’s changed to “my mama.” Everything from “my mama so cheap” to “my mama so ugly” and “my mama so hot.” His mother turns out to be a pleasant, friendly woman not much older than Felicity. She chats with Dig briefly and then steers Shorty toward an apartment a few doors down.

The kid runs back to them and jabs Felicity with a surprisingly sharp elbow. “One more for the lady?” He adopts a swaggering pose to go with his grin. “My mama so fat, she got mass whether the Higgs-Boson exists or not.”

Felicity laughs so hard, she snorts. Shorty finds this hilarious and tries for an encore, but his mother intervenes, rolling her eyes. Felicity’s still laughing as she follows Dig and baby Sara into the apartment.

Oliver is helping Lyla set the table, and Felicity can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up when he sees her.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, wiping away tears of laughter. “A science joke.”

“Are you going to share?” he says after a brief pause.

She shakes her head. “Having to explain why it’s funny automatically renders it non-funny.”

“Oh, come on.” He gives her a playful nudge that sends the butterflies in her stomach into flight. “I got the Schrodinger’s cat joke you sent me.”

“Only because I also sent you the Wikipedia article for Schrodinger’s cat. Which I didn’t think you’d actually read.”

“It was from  _you_ ,” said Oliver. “Of course I did.”


	26. FF #26: Oh, Baby!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will stay empty for now because I just cannot get inspired by this prompt, but I want my chapters numbered properly. If I do come up with something, I'll make some kind of announcement so no one misses it.

 

**FF #26: Oh, Baby!**


	27. FF #27: Is That Blood?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity looks awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very belated b-day fic for dettiot. Happy Birthday, my dear friend!

**FF #27: Is That Blood?**

**For dettiot**

It wasn’t as if he was seeing her in formal wear for the first time. Floor-length gowns, cocktail dresses, hair up, hair down . . . They’d attended enough of these events that Oliver had seen it all. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the first gala they were attending together.

Okay, it wasn’t as a real couple. It was a cover to get close enough to the new mayoral candidate that they could plant a bug and find out if the shady rumors going around were true.

It was also one of the first things they’d done together since Oliver realized his feelings for Felicity ran much deeper than friendship or partnership. He loved her, and it made everything brighter, sharper. Felicity had always been able to change the atmosphere in a room just by entering it, but tonight Oliver was pretty sure time stopped.

Her dress was deep red, baring one shoulder, a spray of beads at her hip. She stuck out a foot and leaned forward, inspecting her sparkly white heel. When she straightened up, a half-smile on her face, her eyes roved around the room until they found his. The connection felt like something he could actually touch, a line drawn from him to her, the snap of puzzle pieces falling into place. It was right.

It was right when her eyes lit up and her smile widened. It was right to cross the room in a few strides and take her hand.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered.

“Damn straight,” she murmured in reply. “You have no idea how long it takes to get my hair to behave like this.”

Her sleek updo didn’t look complicated to him, and he was about to say so, but then her hand slipped into his jacket to slide around his waist, and he couldn’t speak.

“Oh, wow. Sorry. That was highly inappropriate.” She withdrew her hand, blushing. “I was just . . . just checking. Suspenders. Yay.” She did a little fist-pump.

“We’re supposed to look like a couple, remember?” he said quietly. “How’s it going to look if you turn red every time we touch?”

Felicity’s eyes widened. “There will be touching? You didn’t say anything about touching when I agreed to this.”

“Because it goes without saying. Couples touch each other, Felicity.”

It came out sounding more condescending than he intended, and she gave him a look that said she agreed.

“One hour,” he said. “Just put up with me for one hour. That’s all I ask.”

Felicity sighed in a way he couldn’t read. “I can put up with you for an hour. Especially when you’re wearing . . .” She leaned into him and rose up on tiptoe to peer into his face. “Oliver, is that blood?”

He reached up, but she beat him to it, licking her thumb and then rubbing a spot on his cheek right near his mouth. It brought them close enough to kiss, and the air in the room changed. Oliver was suddenly so hot that kissing her sounded like the best option to get some relief.

Thank God Felicity had more sense than him. She drew back. But she wasn’t entirely unaffected--she was breathing hard--and it was difficult for him to keep the smugness from showing.

“Just once, would you look in a mirror?” she asked. “You can’t just trade your green suit for your tux and not give yourself a quick check. What if you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe? How would you know if your fly’s down?”

Oliver couldn’t help it. Once she mentioned it, he had to check. But his fly was up. They shared a quick grin.

He was an idiot. An idiot to think he could have more, to think he deserved more. An idiot to have almost jeopardized what he did have with her, just because he could barely control himself when she was so close.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Felicity said, nudging him with her elbow. “It makes you look grumpy when you’re supposed to look like you’re having a good time.”

He dusted off the Ollie Queen asshole smile and pasted it on.

“Oh my God, that’s worse. You look like a serial killer. Go back to being grumpy.”

Oliver huffed out a laugh. “I guess my smile is a little rusty.”

“Your real one is,” she replied. “But it’s pretty nice. You should let it come out to play more often.”

“It’s easier than it used to be,” said Oliver. “You give me something to smile about.”

 


	28. FF #28: That's Vegas, Baby!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a placeholder chapter for now, because I just couldn't get inspired for this particular prompt.

FF #28: That's Vegas, Baby!

 

I am skipping this prompt for now.


	29. FF #29: Up Close and Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicity has a really, really long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not incredibly pleased with this, but it was my first foray back into Olicity fic after a somewhat lengthy hiatus, so it makes sense that I'd be a little rusty. Sorry for any typos. I typed it up fast and am posting it quickly so I can go to bed.

**FF #29: Up Close and Personal**

“Hold the elevator!” a slightly raspy male voice called out just as the doors shut.

Felicity punched a button and the elevator doors slid open. It was a reflex—she wasn’t feeling very charitable. A giant in a suit skidded around the corner and slipped through the narrow opening. He jabbed another button and the doors closed the rest of the way.

“Thanks,” he said, turning to her and flashing her a calculated smile like it was a box to be checked off a list. “You saved me.”

 _Oh my God, it’s Oliver Queen. How could five years on a deserted island make him look_ less _like a serial killer? He’s actually hot now!_

Mercifully, she managed to keep that all to herself, only saying, “Saved you from what?”

“Unrealistic expectations,” he said with a sigh, letting his head fall back to thud against the wall. “And an intrusive bodyguard.”

“Isn’t that kind of their job?” Felicity asked.

“Oh, he’s very good at his job,” said Oliver.

 _No, Mr. Queen_ , she corrected herself.

“Makes it harder to ditch him,” he continued, “but I’m up for the challenge.”

“When you came up with your great run-from-the-bodyguard plan, did you think about where you’d go?” she asked. “You haven’t picked a floor yet.”

“Oh. Right.” He leaned forward and stabbed a button.

36\. Three floors up from where they were, and completely the opposite direction from where Felicity needed to go. She groaned inwardly as the elevator rose.

“What?”

Or maybe not so inwardly.

“Nothing,” she said, but she was too tired to keep the glum, Eeyore-like tone out of her voice.

“It’s not nothing.” He turned his full attention on her, and _wow_ , it was intense. “You’re obviously disappointed by my choice, so just tell me.”

She pushed up her glasses on her nose. “You want to go up. I want to go down. It’s only three floors, so the elevator will take you up first, and then it’ll stop a million times on the way down, and I’ve been here for fourteen—“ She checked her phone. “—fifteen hours already. I just want to get down to my car, go home and throw on my Wonder Woman pj’s, and fall asleep on the couch in front of an _X-Files_ episode I’ve seen ten times.”

He fumbled in his pocket. “You know, they gave me this key . . .” He pulled out a key ring and started flipping through the keys like pages in a book. He chose a small silver one and inserted it into the lock below the elevator’s bank of buttons.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting the elevator to go back down.”

The key wouldn’t turn. He forced it so hard that the head snapped off, leaving the long piece with teeth in the lock. The elevator slowed to a halt.

“Oh my God, did you break it?”

“Yeah.” He held out his palm to show her the fragment.

Felicity nudged him aside. She pushed her button again—P3. She pushed _his_ button. She pushed _all_ the buttons, but the elevator didn’t start up again, and the doors remained closed.

She sighed. “You broke the elevator.”

He stared at her for a moment, a look of panic briefly flashing across his face. Then he reached past her and pulled the big red plunger labeled _Emergency Stop._

“We’re already stopped,” she started to say, but her words were swallowed by the shrieking of an alarm. The lights cut low to red and began flashing.

The guy was frantic now, pushing all the buttons like she had, but the alarm continued to wail. HE slammed his fist into the wall in frustration.

“Hey.”

With one hand, she grabbed his fist, forced his fingers to uncurl. With the other hand, she pushed the Emergency Stop plunger back in, shutting off the alarm. The lights stayed dim and red, but they were no longer flashing.

Felicity looked up at him. He seemed to be somewhere else.

“Hey,” she said again, squeezing his hand.

After a moment, he met her gaze.

“Claustrophobic?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“How about we sit for a minute? Sitting’s good.”

He nodded, so they sat on the floor, shoulders touching. Kind of. He was about a foot taller than her. When she tucked her feet to the side, he caught sight of her panda flats and smiled.

“Felicity Smoak.” She stuck out her hand and he shook it.

“So, Felicity Smoak, what have you been doing here for fifteen hours?” he asked.

“I.T.,” she said, showing him her employee badge. “System upgrades. _And_ some bonehead on the 33 rd floor picked today to download a suspicious attachment and e-mail a virus to half the building.”

He smiled again. It was impossible not to smile back. “Allow me to introduce to myself.”

“Oh, I know who you are. You’re Mr. Queen.”

“No, Mr. Queen was my father,” he replied. “I’m Oliver, the bonehead from the 3rd floor.”

Her mouth dropped open. A slow blush simmered on her cheeks.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t say ‘bonehead,’” she responded. “I didn’t mean it, except . . . Really? Not downloading suspicious attachments is so basic. They cover it in new employee orientation.”

Oliver’s smile turned sheepish. “My family owns the company. I didn’t go to new employee orientation.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

They chatted for an hour. Oliver was able to forget his claustrophobia, and Felicity was able to forget she was talking to someone whose name was on the building. And somewhere between explaining _Doctor Who_ and the kiss he pressed to her temple right before they were rescued, she was able to forgive him for making her long day even longer, twice.


End file.
